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SONGS OF THE 
COWBOYS 

Compiled by 

N. HOWARD THORP 

("Jack" Thorp) 

With an introduction by 
ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

(Cfce 0iUei:?i&e pte& Cambrib0e 

1921 



-*#+ 



COPYRIGHT, I90S AND I92I, BY N. HOWARD THORP 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



fO 



NOV -! 1921 



©CU627517 



TO THE FOLLOWING COW-GIRLS AND PUNCHERS 
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED 

Many of you I have worked with in the past, on the range, 
the trail, and in the branding pens. All of you I have 
known well. In looking over this list I find the names of 
some who will never read this, as unfortunately they 've 
answered the call. Those who are alive I heartily thank 
for having given me their assistance in collecting these 
songs. May this little book tend to recall the times, good 
and tough, we had together. 

N. Howard {"Jack") Thorp 



Miss Windsor 

Bronco Sue 

Miss Jean Beaumondy 

Miss Belle Starr 

Miss Kitt Collins 

Battle Axe 

Jim Hagan 

Frank Hayes 

Sam Murray 

Walker Hyde 

Walt Roberts 

Joe Cotton 

Al Roberts 

Tom Williamson 

Sam Jackson 



Jim Falls 
Tom Hudspeth 
"Sally" White 
Jack Moore 
Dick Wilson 
Tom Beasley 
Doc Henderson 
Shorty Liston 
John Caldwell 
Dodge Sanford 
Joel Thomas 
Jim Brownfield 
Clabe Merchant 
John Collier 
Randolph Reynolds 



Kearn Carico 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



I wish to acknowledge the use of songs from the 
following authors: James Barton Adams, Charles 
Eadger Clark, Larry Chittenden, Alice Corbin, 
Austin Corcoran, J. W. Foley, Henry Herbert 
Knibbs, Phil Le Noir. 

"A Cowboy's Prayer"; "A Border Affair," and 
"High- Chin Bob" are published by permission of 
Richard G. Badger from Sun and Saddle Leather, 
by Badger Clark; " Sky-High"; "Old Hank"; 
"The Little Cow-girl"; "Pecos Tom"; "'Light, 
Stranger, 'Light"; "Women Outlaws"; "Old 
Paint," and "What 's Become of the Punchers?" 
by N. Howard Thorp, were published in Poetry: 
A Magazine of Verse, in August, 1920; and Phil 
LeNoir's "01' Dynamite" and "Down on the 01' 
Bar-G " in the same number of the magazine. The 
cowboy version of "High-Chin Bob," by Charles 
Badger Clark, was published in Poetry in August, 
1917. Henry Herbert Knibbs's "Punchin' Dough" 
appeared in the Popular Magazine. 

Phil LeNoir is the author of Rhymes of the Wild 
and Woolly (Phil LeNoir, Las Vegas, N.M.); 
Charles Badger Clark, of Sun and Saddle 
Leather and Grass Grown Trails (Richard G. 
Badger, Boston); Henry Herbert Knibbs, of Songs 
of the Outlands, Riders of the Stars and Songs of 
the Trail (Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston). 



viii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 



Larry Chittenden, author of "The Cowboys' 
Christmas Ball" in this volume, has a book oi 
songs called Ranch Verses (G. P. Putnam's Sons, 
New York). 

N. IL T. 



CONTENTS 



ARIZONA BOYS AND GIRLS, THE I 

ARROYO AL'S COW-PONY 3 

BIBLICAL COWBOY, THE 4 

BILLY THE KID or WILLIAM H. BONNEY . . 6 

BOOZER, THE 9 

BORDER AFFAIR, A 10 

BRONC PEELER'S SONG 11 

BRONCO JACK'S THANKSGIVING 12 

BUCKING BRONCO 14 

BUCKSKIN JOE 15 

CALIFORNIA TRAIL 18 

CAMP-FIRE HAS GONE OUT, THE 20 

CHASE OF THE O L C STEER 21 

CHOPO 23 

CHUCK-TIME ON THE ROUND-UP .... 24 

COW-CAMP ON THE RANGE, A 30 

COWBOY AT CHURCH, THE 31 

COWBOY AT WORK, THE 34 

COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL, THE .... 35 

COWBOY'S DREAM, THE 40 

COWBOY'S LAMENT, THE 41 

COWBOY'S LIFE, THE 44 

COWBOY'S MEDITATION, THE 46 

COWBOY'S PRAYER, A 47 

COWBOY'S PRIZE, A 48 

COWBOYS VICTIMIZED 49 

COWMAN'S PRAYER, THE 52 



CONTENTS 



CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK, THE ... 53 

CROSSING THE DIVIDE 55 

DAN TAYLOR 57 

DEER HUNT, A 58 

DOWN ON THE OL' BAR-G 60 

DREARY, DREARY LIFE, THE 61 

D:iNG C0W30Y, THE 62 

END OF THE YAQUI TRAIL, THE 63 

FATE OF THE BEEF STEER, THE 65 

FIGHTIN' MAD 65 

FORGET THE EAST 67 

FRIJOLE BEANSES 6S 

GAL I LEFT BEHIND ME, THE 69 

GET ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES 70 

GOL-DARNED WHEEL, THE 71 

GREASER JOE'S PLACE 74 

GREAT ROUND-UP, THE 75 

HELL IN TEXAS 77 

HELL-BOUND TRAIN, THE 79 

HIGH-CHIN BOB 81 

JOHN GARNER'S TRAIL HERD 84 

JOLLY COWBOY, THE 85 

LAST LONGHORN, THE 83 

LAS VEGAS REUNION 91 

"'LIGHT, STRANGER, 'LIGHT". 92 

LITTLE ADOBE CASA 93 

LITTLE COW-GIRL, THE 94 

LITTLE JOE, THE WRANGLER 95 

LOVE ON THE RANGE 98 

MAN NAMED HODS, A 99 

MULE-SKINNERS, THE 101 

MUSTANG GRAY 102 

MY LITTLE BROWN MULE 104 

NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM 105 



CONTENTS xi 



NIGGER '"LASSES": THREE-BLOCK BRONCO- 
BUSTER 106 

NIGHT-HERDING SONG ioS 

OLD CHISHOLM TRAIL, THE 109 

OLD COWMAN, THE 112 

OL' DYNAMITE 113 

OLD GRAZIN' BEN 115 

OLD HANK 116 

"OLD NORTH" 117 

OLD PAINT 118 

OLD PAINT 119 

OLD-TIME COWBOY 121 

"OLD TROUBLE," A L RANCH COLORED COOK 122 

ON THE DODGE 123 

OVERLAND STAGE, THE 124 

PECOS RIVER QUEEN, THE 126 

PECOS TOM 127 

PRAIRIE SONG, A 129 

PROSPECTOR, THE 130 

PUNCHIN' DOUGH 131 

RAILROAD CORRAL, THE 132 

RAMBLING COWBOY, THE 134 

SAM BASS 135 

SKY-HIGH 138 

SONG OF THE RANGE, A 140 

SPECKLES 142 

TEN THOUSAND TEXAS RANGERS . . . .145 

TENDERFOOT, THE 146 

TEXAS COWBOY, THE < . . 148 

THANKSGIVING ON THE RANCH 151 

THREE-BLOCK TOM 153 

TOP HAND I5 6 

U S U RANGE, THE . . . 158 

WESTERN LIFE 160 



xii CONTENTS 



WESTWARD HO! 161 

WHAT'S BECOME OF THE PUNCHERS? . . .162 

WHEN BOB GOT THRO WED 164 

WHOSE OLD COW? 166 

WINDY BILL ... 168 

WOMEN OUTLAWS 170 

ZEBRA DUN, THE ... 171 



INTRODUCTION 



We talk in the East of a public for poetry, and when 
we use this term we are usually thinking of .the pub- 
lic that will, or will not, be prevailed upon to buy the 
books of poetry regularly issued by the standard 
Eastern publishers. But there is in this country a 
considerable public for poetry of which no account 
is taken in the yearly summaries of The Publishers' 
Weekly; that is, the public that enjoys and creates 
folk-poetry in the United States, a public much 
larger and more varied than we imagine. In this 
connection we have the story of a cowboy down on 
his luck who had a collection of cowboy songs 
printed (some of which he had written himself) and 
sold enough copies of the little volume to set him- 
self up in business again. This does n't mean that 
he sold enough to buy a new outfit — "a forty- 
dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar horse " — and start 
punching cattle again. No; the sum made on the 
little paper-covered volume was very much more 
than that; it would have made any Eastern poet 
jealous. And the book was sold, not at news stands 
or book stores, but, like the old broad-sheet bal- 
lads, at cow-camps and round-ups and cattle-fairs. 
The title of this little book was Songs of the Cow- 
boys, the collector, N. Howard Thorp, and the book 
was set up by an Estancia print-shop in 1908. Mr. 
Thorp himself was the author of five of the songs 



xiv INTRODUCTION 

in this volume, later included in Mr. John A. Lo- 
max's collection of Cowboy Songs — " Chopo," " The 
Pecos River Queen," "Little Joe, the Wrangler." 
"Whose Old Cow? " and "Speckles," this last re- 
printed in Mr. Lomax's book under the title of 
" Freckles; A Fragment," just as it came from the 
hands of the local printer who had lost half the copy. 

The present collection is, therefore, an enlarged 
edition of this little volume of 1908, with much new 
material, not the least interesting of which are the 
twenty-fivtf songs by the author. 

As a cowboy poet, N. Howard Thorp — better 
known as "Jack Thorp" to his many friends in the 
Southwest — is the genuine thing. He is an old- 
time cattleman and cowpuncher, and his songs 
are the fruit of experience. His gift is instinctive 
and naive, like that of all real cowboy poets, and 
its charm is precisely in its fresh and "unliterary" 
quality. 

"How long have you been in this country?" I 
asked "Jack " Thorp one day soon after I met him. 
We were sitting on the well-curb in the plaza of an 
Indian pueblo watching a Rain-Dance. 

"You see those cedars up there on the hills? " he 
said, looking above the roof-tops to the foothills. 
"Well, I planted them." 

It was a typical cowboy answer, evasive and sym- 
bolic, and it indicated perfectly well that he might be 
regarded as part of the soil. The cowboy does n't 
"loosen up" until he knows you fairly well. When 
he does, it is usually worth while. I recall now in- 
numerable reminiscences of "Jack" Thorp's when 



INTRODUCTION xv 

he was in more expansive mood, of which I wish 
I could give the exact tone and flavor. 

His account of the "Sooners" at the opening-up 
of the Indian Territory — Guthrie's first citizen: 
The hour set for taking up claims was twelve o'clock 
in the morning; but when they came upon this old 
man at noon he had three acres ploughed with a 
pair of oxen, which he claimed to have done since 
sunrise! His stories of the early days in Lincoln 
County, New Mexico — Pat Garrett unveiled (see 
postscript to "Billy the Kid," by which there hangs 
a tale). . . . Running down a bunch of stolen cattle 
through the Four Corners country, i.e., Arizona, 
New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah — some of the 
wildest country still to be found in these States. . . . 
Old days in the backwoods in Texas, scene of "The 
Little Cow-girl," where "they may not know the 
national anthem, but they all know Turkey in the 
Straw." . . . Early times along and across the Mex- 
ican border, when "headin' west from San Antone " 
was a part of the regular ritual. . . . Also an expe- 
rience of only a few years back, which, as it illus- 
trates a bit of international diplomacy, may be 
worth telling here. 

Mr. Thorp was driving some cattle from Old Mex- 
ico up to Lamy, near Santa Fe. As it happened, he 
was unarmed, since on the way down from Tucson, 
Arizona, to El Sasabe on the line, he fell in with a 
priest who used up all the ammunition for Thorp's 
six-gun shooting prairie dogs. Finding when he got 
to El Sasabe that he could n't get any more car- 
tridges of the right size, Thorp tossed the gun into a 
drawer of the priest's secretary, and went into Mex- 



xvi INTRODUCTION 

ico with two other men whom he had hired on the 
border. Having found the herd and started back 
with it, these three met a company of about forty 
Villistas. The ragged general (nothing lower than a 
general in Villa's army) accosted the outfit. "Are 
you armed?" he asked Thorp. "Yes." "And your 
men?" Again Thorp said, "Yes." "Who gave you 
the right to carry arms in Mexico?" asked the gen- 
eral. "The Governor of the State of Texas," said 
Jack. There was a world of remembered history in 
that answer, and the general, in spite of his supe- 
rior numbers, permitted them to pass unmolested, 
though eyeing the cattle hungrily. If Thorp had 
said, " The President of the United States," it would 
have been of small avail, as the Republic of Texas 
is still far more real to most Mexicans than is our 
flourishing Union, of which it is now a member. 

All this is but a suggestion of the extraordinary 
richness of a life lived during the frontier period in 
the Southwest — a period that is, happily, not yet 
ended, although old-timers will tell you, as the old 
settler in the Organ Mountains said, when he found 
a few cattle with strange brands straying into his 
eighty-mile solitude, "It 's gettin' too crowded here 
— guess I '11 have to move on. " 

Monotonous on the surface, thecowboy's life is 
usually an adventurous one. When I asked Mr. 
Thorp for a sketch of his life, he said, "Just say 
that I 've been everything but a telegraph operator 
or a preacher." (But if he has n't preached, he 
once gave a series of lectures on the Holy Land 
with stereopticon slides!) 

The task of trying to give a portrait of a man of 



INTRODUCTION xvii 

this character is like trying to give a composite 
picture of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and the 
Indian Territory during the last thirty years. . . . 

The hundred songs that make up this book are 
typical and genuine cowboy songs; the river and 
hobo and outlaw songs that are also a part of the 
cowboy's repertory having been omitted. A number 
of songs that belong more specifically to the Cen- 
tral States have also been omitted. Wherever pos- 
sible, Mr. Thorp has given the names of the authors 
of the songs and, when these could not be discov- 
ered, the cowboys who sang them, or the place 
where he found them. 

The fact that most of these songs are of known 
authorship, or that some of them appeared origi- 
nally in print, in no way lessens their genuine folk- 
quality. Otherwise, many of the old English and 
Irish broad-sheet ballads which have come down to 
us through oral tradition, but were, as the term in- 
dicates, originally printed, could not be called folk- 
songs. (As indubitable examples of folk-songs 
with a printed origin and of individual authorship, 
one may mention the " Suwanee River" and " Old 
Kentucky Home" and other songs by Stephen 
Foster. "Auld Lang Syne" is another folk-song, 
which, if the identity of its celebrated author were 
forgotten, would be included in all the folk-lore 
collections.) 

The more one examines the evidence, the more 
one is convinced that it is the use of a song, rather 
than its origin, which determines what is known as 
folk-song. Conditions favorable to the production 



xviii INTRODUCTION 

or preservation of folk-song are : a communal unity 
of interest or occupation, and a certain degree of 
isolation from the larger world of affairs, and from 
continuous contact with printed sources. These are 
the conditions which produced the cowboy songs — 
probably our largest body of native folk-songs, ex- 
cept, of course, the folk-songs of negro source or 
inspiration. (The songs of the American Indians 
are available only in translation.) 

Cowboy songs are, generally speaking, of two 
types; first, songs transmitted by purely oral tradi- 
tion; and, second, songs originally printed, clipped 
from a local newspaper or magazine, fitted to a fa- 
miliar air, and so handed down from one cowboy to 
another, becoming genuine tolk-songs in the process. 
During the transition a certain amount of reshap- 
ing often takes place. Verses may be added or left 
out, or the wording altered — these changes usu- 
ally tending toward a greater simplicity and direct- 
ness and a more graphic cowboy lingo. An inter^- 
esting recent example of such a reshaping through 
oral transmission is furnished by Badger Clark's 
"The Glory Trail," sung among the cowboys in 
southern Arizona under the title of "High-Chin 
Bob." 

The differences between the two versions may be 
noted by referring to the original in Mr. Clark's 
Sun and Saddle Leather. Obviously some one 
found the song somewhere in print, adapted it to a 
familiar tune, and passed it on. This is the history 
of a number of the songs. Again, others have been 
built upon well-known airs; "The Cowboy's Dream" 
is sung to the tune of " My Bonnie Lies Over the 



INTRODUCTION xix 

Ocean," and Jack Thorp's "Little Joe, the Wrang- 
ler " was composed to the tune of "The Little Old 
Log Cabin in the Lane." 

Many of the cowboy songs, and almost all of the 
earlier ones, belong to the first type; they exist in- 
dependent of any printed origin and have come 
down to us through oral tradition. They are anony- 
mous because their authors have been forgotten, 
but this does not mean that they were not in the first 
place of individual authorship; although songs of 
such loose and catchy structure as "The Old Chis- 
holm Trail," "01dPaint,"or "The Deer Hunt"lend 
themselves easily to composite touches. Nor are all 
of the earlier songs without antecedents. "The 
Dying Cowboy" was modeled upon a sea-chantey 
and "The Cowboy's Lament" has been traced to a 
popular Irish military song of the eighteenth cen- 
tury — the cowboy who had the old song in his mem- 
ory may well have been of that race. Indeed, the 
accent of many of the songs has a distinctly Celtic 
echo: 

There was a rich old rancher who lived in the country by; 
He had a lovely daughter, on whom I cast my eye. 

But such adaptation and borrowing, far from prov- 
ing the cowboy songs merely "derelicts," as Pro- 
fessor Gerrould called them in a recent number of 
the New York Evening Post, is a very usual process, 
not only with folk-poets, but with other poets as 
well. Burns modeled many of his poems on well- 
known songs and airs of the countryside, and they 
are not therefore merely "derelicts"; nor is Mr. 
Yeats's "When I am Old and Gray and Full of 



xx INTRODUCTION 

Sleep " a "derelict" because Ronsard fathered it. 
In this connection it is interesting to see the crop- 
ping-up of an old theme, although perfectly un- 
consciously and with no debt to Villon, in Mr. 
Thorp's "What 's Become of the Punchers We 
Rode with Long Ago?" This is a case, not of bor- 
rowing, but of the eternal recurrence of certain old 
themes. 

To test American cowboy songs by the finest 
flower of English or European balladry, as is some- 
times done by distinguished folk-lore students who 
come over here to obtain survivals of their own 
songs, in the Kentucky mountains and elsewhere, 
is of course a mistake. Cowboy ballads represent 
a folk-tradition still in the making — their greatest 
antiquity is only a little over a half century — and 
the European ballads are several centuries old, and 
have the advantage of a literary tradition even older. 
Indeed, this tradition is so distinctly literary in 
origin that, but for the oral use and transmission of 
the songs, one might hesitate to call them folk-songs ! 
But to say, as Mr. Cecil Sharp does, that "The cow- 
boy has been despoiled of his inheritance of tra- 
ditional song; he has nothing behind him," is again 
a mistake. There are various degrees of sophis- 
tication among the cowboys, as one can see in 
these songs. James Russell Lowell, when he wrote 
the "Biglow Papers," was not thereby despoiled 
of his literary inheritance, nor was John Hay when 
he wrote "Jim Bludso," or Charles Godfrey Leland 
when he wrote the Hans Breitmann Ballads The 
lack of literary associations in the cowboy songs is 
not necessarily an indication of a corresponding lack 



INTRODUCTION xsi 

of tradition or background in their composers. Amer- 
ican cowpunchers have, indeed, been drawn from 
all walks in life, but the majority of them belong 
to that same pioneer stock which settled the 
East, the Middle West, the Far West, and the 
Southwest, in turn; the same sort of pioneer stock 
that produced Mark Twain and Bret Harte. 

Whatever the cowboy's "inheritance of tradi- 
tional song " may or may not have been (and it was 
that of the general American public of the period), 
the fact that counts is his creation of a new tradi- 
tion — a tradition of which these songs are the 
most authentic record. What one appreciates in 
the survivals of the old English folk-songs is pre- 
cisely the literary association, and their beauti- 
fully simple but highly evolved poetic form. But 
the associations of cowboy songs are directly local 
and immediate, and perhaps these can be appreci- 
ated fully only by those familiar with the life that 
has produced them. ^ 

] It is quite true that the world of the cowboy songs 
is less imaginary than actual. It was a concrete 
world the cov/boy lived in — he could n't escape 
too much into the world of the imagination. If he 
did, he might forget and let the old cow die bogged 
down, or slide to perdition from the back of the 
bucking bronco. His world is not, it is true, peo- 
pled with fairies or ghostly apparitions or knights 
in steel armor. Instead, he writes of dying long- 
horns, buffaloes, mule-skinners, bucking broncos, 
stampeding cattle, and his hard-handed companions 
of the trail and chuck-wagon. His armor is his own, 
and he celebrates it — chaps, slicker, spurs, saddle 



xxii INTRODUCTION 

reata, and horse. His life is — cattle; but those 
who think this life prosaic overlook the hidden ro- 
mance, the lonely and tragic and humorous events 
of the round-up, the long trail-drive, or the night- 
watch. 

\ Whenever the cowboy poet deserts the actual 
world, it is to dream of a cowboy heaven. (And, 
after all, was not just such an arbitrarily arranged 
heaven the basic fabric of Dante's dream?) During 
the long night-watch, the cowboy looks up through 
the clear atmosphere to the star-besprinkled heav- 
ens and wonders about the Hereafter in terms 
amusingly translated from his daily occupation: 

And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling, 

A maverick unbranded on high, 
And get cut in the bunch with the " rusties" 

When the boss of the riders goes by. 

Y He carried the same terminology into his court- 
ship songs, and indeed into ail his songs, and 
thereby creates or perpetuates a new idiom. (In fact 
the cowboys have contributed a new idiom to our 
national speech. We never have a big party con- 
vention without certain headlines appearing: "Pol- 
iticians billing around '; leaders afraid of a 'stam- 
pede.' ") About this idiom in his songs, the cowboy < 
poet is far more exacting than about any question 
of rhyme or meter; and any departure from the 
correct vernacular or handling of the various leath- 
ers is at once detected as a mark of the tenderfoot 
poet. 

The tradition is, then, intact in these cowboy 
songs, and we may accept them for what they are — 



INTRODUCTION xxiii 

naive records of the hard and free life on the range, 
celebrating such adventures as belong to virgin 
soil, pioneer hardships, dangers, and fun. Fun is, 
indeed, one of the chief characteristics of these 
songs, and it is a fun that includes the same sort A 
of humorous exaggeration in which Mark Twain 
excelled. 

My excuse for touching, in this introduction, 
upon the pedagogical folk-aspect of these songs, 
which depends, after all, upon their spontaneous 
appeal to those for whom they were written, is 
simply that, in appropriate phraseology, I would 
rather be caught " heeled," and these are questions 
which will undoubtedly crop up in connection with 
the book. 

But those who know and appreciate the life cel- 
ebrated in these songs will need no introduction 
or explanation; and it is for such readers and old- 
timers particularly that the book is intended. If 
Mr. Thorp had written a preface for the book, his 
gesture would probably have been as simple as 
that of the Mayor of Las Vegas, who said at the 
recent Cowboy Reunion, "The town is yours, 
Boys, take care of it." 

ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON 
Santa Fe 
New Mexico 



SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



THE ARIZONA BOYS AND GIRLS 

Don't know the author. Heard it sung by Kitt Collins in 
Deming, New Mexico. 

Come, all of you people, I pray you draw near, 
A comical ditty I promise you '11 hear. 
The boys in this country they try to advance 
By courting the ladies and learning to dance. 

The boys in this country they try to be plain — 
Those words that you hear you may hear them 

again 
With twice as much added on if you can. 
There's many a boy who thinks he's a man. 

They'll go to their parties, their whiskey they'll 

take, 
And out in the dark their bottles they'll break; 
You'll hear one say, "There's a bottle round here; 
So come around, boys, and we'll all take a share." 

There is some wears shoes and some wears boots, 
But there are very few that rides who don't shoot; 
More than this I'll tell you what they'll do, 
They '11 get them a watch and a ranger hat too ; 

They'll go in the hall with spurs on their heel; 
They'll get them a partner to dance the next reel, 



SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



Saying, "How do I look in my new brown suit, 
With my pants stuffed down in the top of my boot ? " 

Now, I think it's quite time to leave off theso 

lads, 
For here are some girls that's fully as bad; 
They'll trim up their dresses and curl up their 

hair, 
And like an old owl 'fore the looking-glass stare. 

The girls in the country they grin like a cat, 

And with giggling and laughing don't know where 

they're at; 
They think they're pretty, and I tell you they're 

wise, 
But they could n't get married to save their two eyes. 

You can tell a good girl wherever she's found; 
No trimming, no laces, no nonsense around ; 
With a long-eared bonnet tied under her chin, — 
She '11 marry you if you are broke or if you have the 
tin. 

They'll go to church with their snuff-box in hand, 
They '11 give it a tap to make it look grand ; 
Perhaps there is another one or two 
And they'll pass it around and it's " Madam, won't 
you?" 

Now, I think it's quite time for this ditty to end; 
If there's any one here that it will offend, 
If there's any one here that thinks it amiss, 
Just come round and give the singer a kiss. 



ARROYO AL'S COW-POflY 



ARROYO AL'S COW-PONY 

By J. A. Squires, Helena, Montana 

I first heard this sung in a cow-camp in Guadalupe Moun- 
tains, New Mexico. 

I took a trip this summer to the market, 

And I struck an Eastern city where they sell you 

tubs of beers; 
I was feelin' pretty yowlish and I could n't say my 

name, 
When I wound up somehow 'nuther at a high-toned 

polo game. 

There were sunburned doods cavortin' on some 

ponies in a lot, 
And they whacked a little ball till it traveled like a 

shot; 
I could n't savvy, nohow, and I vowed that I was 

through, 
When I spied a feller ridin' on a pony that I knew. 

It was that there buckskin bronco that I rode for 

the Circle Bar; 
He was clipped and oiled and powdered, but I knew 

each old-time scar ; 
I had lost him when Bear Hawkins played an extra 

ace and jack, v 

And I 'd alius had a longin' f er to git that pony back. 

Well, he sorter stopped and snorted when I give 

an old-time "Yip!" 
And he bucked until his rider hit the ground upon 

his hip; 



SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



And he came a-runnm* to me and I jumped upon 

his back, 
And he pitched for sheer enjoyment when I hit his 

flank a whack. 

Well, I rode across the open and I stooped down on 

the run, 
And picked up the polo mallet (fer the player he 

was done), 
And I hit that ball a crack, sir, and it sailed plum 

o'er the fence, 
And the crowd just howled with pleasure, fer they 

thought the sport immense. 

Well, it cost me just six hundred fer to git my little 

bronk, 
And to have that player patched up from his heels to 

injured conk; 
But I got my old cow-pony — and jest hear this one 

thing more : 
Don't whisper "polo" to him or he'll buck like 

Satan, shore! 

THE BIBLICAL COWBOY 

Sent me by Jim Hagan, of Tulsa, Oklahoma 

All day long on the prairies I ride, 
Not even a dog to trot by my side ; 
My fire I kindle with chips gathered round, 

My coffee I boil without being ground. 

i 

I wash in a pool and wipe on a sack; 
I carry my wardrobe all on my back; 



THE BIBLICAL COWBOY 



For want of an oven I cook bread in a pot, 
And sleep on the ground for want of a cot. 

My ceiling the sky, my floor is the grass, 
My music is the lowing herds as they pass; 
My books are the brooks, my sermons the stones; 
My parson the wolf on his pulpit of bones. 

And then, if cooking is not complete, 
You can't blame me for wanting to eat. 
But show me a man that sleeps more profound 
Than the big puncher-boy stretching out on the 
ground. 

My books teach me ever consistence to prize, 
My sermons that small things I should not despise; 
My parson remarks from his pulpit of bones 
That fortune favors those who look out for their own. 

And then between me and love lies a gulf wide: 
Some lucky fellow may call her his bride. 
My friends gently hint I am coming to grief, 
But men must make money and women have beef. 

But Cupid is always a friend to the bold, 

And the best of his arrows are pointed with gold. 

As society bans me, so savage I dodge, 

And the Masons would ball me out of their lodge. 

If I had hair on my chin I might pass for the goat 
That bore all the sins in the ages remote; 
But why it is I cannot understand, 
That each of the patriarchs owned a big brand. 



SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



Abraham emigrated in search of a range, 
And when water was scarce he wanted a change; 
Old Isaac owned cattle in charge of Esau, 
And Jacob punched cows for his father-in-law. 

He started in business way down at bed rock, 

And made quite a stake at handling stock; 

Then David went from night-herding to using a 

sling; 
And winning the battle he became a great king; 
Then the shepherds, while herding the sheep on a 

hill, 
Got a message from heaven of peace and good 

will. 



BILLY THE KID 

or 

WILLIAM H. BONNEY 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Down in Lincoln the native women still scare their chil- 
dren with the threat that Bilito will come and get them if 
they dorit behave. 

Bustin* down the canyon, 

Horses on the run, 

Posse just behind them, 

'T was June first, seventy-one. 

Saddle guns in scabbards, 

Pistols on saddle bow, 

The boys were ridin* for their lives — 

The Kid en Alias Joe. 



BILLY THE KID 



Thirty miles west of the Gila 
They bade the posse good-bye, 
For they couldn't keep up with the light- 
weight Kids, 
Now matter how hard they'd try. 

From the land of the Montezuma, 
Past the hills of the Mogollons, 
By night en day they made their way 
Till they landed in Tombstone. 

Those were frontier towns, old pardner; 
'T was a game of take en give, 
And the one who could draw the fastest 
Was the only one who 'd live. 

Whiskey en women en poker, 

Monte en Faro en Stud, 

Just a short wild race, who'd keep the pace 

Would land in a river of blood. 

Fightin' en drinkin' en gambling 
Nigger en Mex en White; 
'T was a riot of sin, let the best man win; 
'T was drink, when called, or fight. 

En every one claimed a woman, 
Though none of their claims would stand 
'Gainst the Kid, who was quicker 'n lightning 
With a gun in either hand. 

Believing that John H. Tunstall 
Was the man who was in the right, 



SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



He offered him his services 
In the Lincoln County fight. 

The Kid rode with Brewer's posse 
Who avenged John Tunstall's loss, 
Killing William Morton, en Baker 
Roberts en Joe Ross. 

Locked in the Dolan house in Lincoln, 
Then used as a county jail, 
Handcuffed en with a double guard, 
Trailing a ball en chain, 

He killed his guards, Bell en Olinger, 
In the jail yard in daylight, 
Stole the horse of the probate clerk 
En on him made his flight. 

Caught a-napping at last in Sumner, 
In Pete Maxwell's room one night, 
Not knowing he was waylaid, 
Not knowing with whom to fight; 

A chance shot fired by Garrett, 

A chance shot that found its mark; 

*T was lucky for Pat the Kid showed plain, 

While Garrett was hid in the dark. 

If Garrett was game, I don't know it; 
He never appeared so to me; 
If any of you fellows think so, 
I'll refer you to Oliver Lee. 

P.S. Oliver, if you happen to see this, don't shoot through 
the water-tank and drown me. Jack 



THE BOOZER 



THE BOOZER 

Cut this out of a Colorado newspaper 

I'ma howler from the prairies of the West! 

If you want to die with terror look at me ! 

I 'm chain-lightning — if I ain't, may I be blessed 1 

I'm the snorter of the boundless prairie! 

He's a killer and a hater! 

He's the great annihilator! 

He 's a terror of the boundless prairie! 

I'm the snoozer from the upper trail! 
I'm the reveler in murder and in gore! 
I can bust more Pullman coaches on the rail 
Than any one who's worked the job before. 

He's a snorter and a snoozer! 

He's the great trunk line abuser! 

He's the man who puts the sleeper on the rail! 

I'm the double- jawed hyena from the East! 
I'm the blazing bloody blizzard of the States! 
I'm the celebrated slugger; I'm the Beast! 
I can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits! 

He's a double-jawed hyena! 

He 's the villain of the scena! 

He can snatch a man bald-headed while he waits! 



io SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

A BORDER AFFAIR 
By Charles Badger Clark, Jr. 
Sung by Orville Cox, a Taos Cowboy 

Spanish is the lovin* tongue, 
Soft as music, light as spray : 
*T was a girl I learnt it from, 
Livin' down Sonora way. 
I don't look much like a lover, 
Yet I say her love words over 
Often when I 'm all alone — 
"Mi amor, mi corazon." 

Nights when she knew where I'd ride 
She would listen for my spurs, 
Fling the big door open wide, 
Raise them laughin' eyes of hers, 
And my heart would nigh stop beatin* 
When I heard her tender greeting 
Whispered soft for me alone — t 
"Mi amor, mi corazon! " 

Moonlight in the patio, 
Old Senora noddin' near, , 
Me and Juana talkin' low 
So the Madre could n't hear — 
How those hours would go a-flyin'l 
And too soon I 'd hear her sighin' 
In her little sorry tone — 
"Adios, mi corazon!" 

But one time I had to fly 
For a foolish gamblin' fight, 



BRONC PEELER'S SONG n 

And we said a swift good-bye 

In that black unlucky night. 

When I 'd loosed her arms from clingin' 

With her words the hoofs kept ringin' 

As I galloped north alone — 

"Adios, mi corazon!" 

Never seen her since that night — 
I kaint cross the Line, you know. 
She was Mex, and I was white; 
Like as not it's better so. 
Yet I've always sort of missed her 
Since that last wild night I kissed her; 
Left her heart and lost my own — 
"Adios, mi corazon!" 

BRONC PEELER'S SONG 

Authorship unknown. First heard sung by L. Brennon, 
at Indian Tanks, New Mexico. 

I've been upon the prairie, r 

I've been upon the plain, 
I've never rid a steamboat, 
Nor a double-cinched-up train. 
But I 've driv my eight- up to wagon 
That were locked three in a row, 
And that through blindin' sand-storms, 
And all kinds of wind and snow. 

There never was a place I've been 
Had any kind of wood : 
We burn the roots of bar-grass 
And think it's very good. 



12 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

I've never tasted home bread, 
Nor cakes nor muss like that; 
But I know fried dough and beef 
Pulled from red-hot tallow fat. 

I hate to see the wire fence 

A-closin' up the range; 

And all this fillin' in the trail 

With people that is strange. 

We fellers don't know how to plough, 

Nor reap the golden grain; 

But to round up steers and brand the cows 

To us was alius plain. 

So when this blasted country 

Is all closed in with wire, 

And all the top as trot grass 

Is burnin' in Sol's fire, 

I hope the settlers will be glad 

When rain hits the land, 

And all us cowdogs are in hell 

With a "set" joined hand in hand. 

BRONCO JACK'S THANKSGIVING 

By James Barton Adams 

Heard this recited by a young lady at a Cowboys* Reunion 
at Las Vegas, New Mexico, and afterwards learned the 
author's name. 

'T was this time jest a year ago on this Thanks- 

givin' Day, 
That me an' Bronco Jack stood up, an' pa gave me 

away. 



BRONCO JACK'S THANKSGIVING 13 

An* Parson Billy spoke the words that made us 

man and wife, 
To run as double-header team along the trail of life. 
We had a combination feast, half weddin' dinner an* 
The other half Thanksgivin' an* I tell you it was 

grand; 
An* everybody that was there allowed the dance 

jest tuk 
The cake from any ranch event that they had ever 

struck. 

They all kep' savin* Jack was wild, an* some allowed 

that he 
Was hardly fit to share the life o' sich gal as me. 
But I was of a reckless turn, an* tol' 'em that I hoped 
To have success in tamin' him when I had got him 

roped. 
There 's quite a change of f eelin' now, f er ever sence 

the day, 
We fined our hands an* tuk the vows to make a 

double play, 
He 's proved as good a husban' as a woman ever got, 
An* all the gals is jealous of the thorrerbred I 

caught. 

The only thing that's rattled him was when the 

Master sent 
Two great big bouncin' baby twins to us : the said 

event 
Jest seemin' fer to break him up, him savin', sort 

o' gruff, 
That one sich infant music-box he thought was 

quite enough; 



14 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

But now he's sort o' reconciled: I of'n hear him 

talk 
About 'em bein' pedigreed an' fancy blooded stock; 
An' though he yit holds to it that I played it rather 

bold, 
I know he would n't part with one fer twice its 

weight in gold. 

As we was settin' here last night a-talkin' 'bout the 

day, 
An' all that we was thankful fer, I said, in a jokin' 

way: 
"Now, tell me, honest Injun, Jack, dead earnest 

an' fer fair, 
If you ain't filled with gratitude a-lookin' at that 

pair? " 
He gazed down at the sleepin' kids a-layin' side by 

side, 
With what I sort o' 'magined was a look o' daddy 

pride. 
An' said: "They're fine as silk an' I ain't makin' 

any roar, 
But I am mighty thankful that there was n't any 



more 



i« 



BUCKING BRONCO 

By Belle Star, Indian Territory 

Written about 1878. Song has been expurgated by me. 
The author was a member of a notorious gang of out- 
laws, but a very big-hearted woman. I knew her well. 

My love is a rider, wild broncos he breaks, 
Though he's promised to quit it, just for my sake. 



BUCKSKIN JOE 15 

He ties up one foot, the saddle puts on, 

With a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone. 

The first time I met him, 't was early one spring, 

Riding a bronco, a high-headed thing. 

He tipped me a wink as he gayly did go, 

For he wished me to look at his bucking bronco. 

The next time I saw him, 't was late in the fall, 

Swinging the girls at Tomlinson's ball: 

He laughed and he talked as we danced to and 

fro, — 
Promised never to ride on another bronco. 

He made me some presents, among them a ring; 
The return that I made him was a far better thing; 
'T was a young maiden's heart, I'd have you all 

know 
He 'd won it by riding his bucking bronco. 

Now, all you young maidens, where'er you reside, 
Beware of the cowboy who swings the rawhide, 
He '11 court you and pet you and leave you and go 
In the spring up the trail on his bucking bronco. 

BUCKSKIN JOE 

Author unknown. First heard this recited by a medicine- 
vendor in Waco, Texas, on the public square. 

'T was a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called 

Arapahoe, 
And the whiskey was a-running with a soft and 

gentle flow; 



16 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

The music was a-ringing in a dance-hall 'cross the 

way, 
And the dancers was a-swinging just as close as 

they could lay. 

People gathered round the tables a-betting of 
their wealth, 

And near by stood a stranger who had come there 
for his health. 

He was a peaceful stranger, though he seemed to 
be unstrung; 

For just before he'd left his home he'd been sep- 
arated from one lung. 

Near by at a table sat a man named Hankey Dean, 
A tougher man than Hankey leather chaps had 

never seen. 
But Hankey was a gambler and he sure did hate 

to lose; 
And he had just parted with a sun-dried stack of 

blues. 

He arose from the table, on the floor his last chip 
flung, 

And cast his fiery glimmers on the man with just 
one lung. 

"No wonder I've been losing every bet I made to- 
night 

When a sucker and a tenderfoot was 'tween me 
ana the light. 

"Look here, little stranger, do you know who I am? " 
"Yes, and I don't care a copper-colored damn." 



BUCKSKIN JOE 17 

The dealers stopped their dealing and the players 

held their breath; 
For words like those to Hankey were a sudden flirt 

with death. 

"Listen, gentle stranger, I'll read my pedigree: 
I'm known for handling tenderfeet and worser 

men than thee; 
The lions on the mountains I've drove them to 

their lairs ; 
The wild-cats are my playmates and I've wrestled 

grizzly bears; 

"Why, the centipedes can't sorter mar my tough old 

hide, 
And rattlesnakes have bit me and crawled off and 

died. 
I'm as wild as the wildest horse that ever roamed 

the range ; 
The moss grows on my teeth and wild blood flows 

through my veins. 

"I'm wild and woolly and full of fleas, 

And never curried below the knees. 

Now, little stranger, if you '11 give me your address — 

How would you like to go, by fast mail or express?" 

The little stranger, who was leaning against the door, 
Picked up a hand of playing cards that were scat- 
tered on the floor. 
Picking out the five o' spades, he pinned it to the door, 
And then stepped backward some twenty steps or 
more. 



18 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

He pulled out his life-preserver and with a " one, 

two, three, four," 
Blotted out a spot with every pistol roar; 
For he had traveled with a circus, and had only quit 

that day. 
"I have one more left, kind sir, if you wish to call 

the play." 

Then Hank stepped up to the stranger, and this is 
the way he spoke : 

" Why, the lions in the mountains — that was 
nothing but a joke ; 

Never mind about the extra — you are a bad shoot- 
ing man, 

And I'm a meek child and as harmless as a lamb." 

CALIFORNIA TRAIL 

By Kate Childs ("Montana Kate") 

Written about 1869. I heard it sung first on Pecos River, 
at Horse Head Crossing, in 1900, by Sam Murray. 

List, all you California boys, 
And open wide your ears, 
For now we start across the plains 
With a herd of mules and steers. 
Now bear in mind, before you start, 
That you'll eat jerked beef, not ham, 
And antelope steak, oh, cuss the stuff! 
It often proves a sham. 

You cannot find a stick of wood 
On all this prairie wide; 
Whene'er you eat you've got to stand 
Or sit on some old bull-hide. 



CALIFORNIA TRAIL 19 

It's fun to cook with buffalo chips 
Or mesquite green as corn, — 
If I 'd once known what I know now 
I 'd have gone around Cape Horn. 

The women have the hardest time 

Who emigrate by land ; 

For when they cook out in the wind 

They 're sure to burn their hand. 

Then they scold their husbands round, 

Get mad and spill the tea, — 

I'd have thanked my stars if they'd not come 

out 
Upon this bleak prairie. 

'Most every night we put out guards 

To keep the Indians off. 

When night comes round some heads will ache, 

And some begin to cough. 

To be deprived of help at night, 

You know is mighty hard, 

But every night there's some one sick, 

To keep from standing guard. 

Then they're always talking of what they've 

got, 
And what they 're going to do ; 
Some will say they 're content, * 

For I've got as much as you. 
Others will say, "I'll buy or sell, 
I'm damned if I care which." 
Others will say, "Boys, buy him out, 
For he does n't own a stitch." 



20 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Old raw-hide shoes are hell on corns 

While tramping through the sands, 

And driving a jackass by the tail — 

Damn the overland, 

I would as leaf be on a raft at sea, 

And there at once be lost. 

John, let's leave the poor old mule, 

We'll never get him across. 



THE CAMP-FIRE HAS GONE OUT 

Author unknown. First heard this sung in San Andreas 
Mountains. I think it was by 'Gene Rhodes. 

Through progress of the railroads our occupation's 

gone; 
So we will put ideas into words, our words into a 

song. 
First comes the cowboy; he is pointed for the west; 
Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best ; 
You will miss him on the round-up; it's gone, his 

merry shout, — 
The cowboy has left the country and the camp-fire 

has gone out. 

There is the freighters, our companions; you've 

got to leave this land; 
Can't drag your loads for nothing through the 

gumbo and the sand. 
The railroads are bound to beat you when you do 

your level best; 
So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the 

west. 



CHASE OF THE O L C STEER 21 

Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout, — 
The cowboy has left the country and the camp-fire 
has gone out. 

When I think of those good old days, my eyes with 

tears do fill ; 
When I think of the tin can by the fire and the coyote 

on the hill. 
I'll tell you, boys, in those days old-timers stood a 

show, — 
Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we 

know. 
But things have changed now; we are poorly clothed 

and fed. 
Our wagons are all broken and our ponies 'most all 

dead. 
Soon we will leave this country; you'll hear the 

angels shout, 
" Oh, here they come to Heaven, the camp-fire has 

gone out." 

CHASE OF THE O L C STEER 

Sent me from Ogalala y Wyoming. Anonymous. Signed 
Miss 

Did you ever hear of the O L C Steer, 
With widely flaring horns? 
He smashes the trees as he splits the breeze, 
And the Cowboy's rope he scorns. 

That O L C's fame it soon became 
Of camp-fire yarns the pet; 
" I '11 stake my rocks that I get that ox," 
Quoth Ray, "Who'll take my bet? 



22 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

"Why, of course my Gray Buck horse 
Will run on him," he said. 
"Show me his track. I'll bring him back, 
I'll bet, alive or dead." 

Up Johnny spoke : " No brags I make ; 
Straight goods I give you now: 
I '11 put my string on anything 
From a coyote to a cow." 

Then up spoke Bob: "With this here job 
You bet I'm going to cope; 
Just you watch me if you want to see 
How Texas punchers rope." 

These cowboys three for modesty 
Have always been well known; 
For don't you know, unless they blow, 
Their horns they'd not be blown? 

Meanwhile the steer, devoid of fear, 
Was trailing o'er the Mesa. 
He sniffed the air; what did he care? 
He knew he was a racer. 

With firm intent on business bent 
Three youth rode up the trail. 
The steer he saw and dropped his jaw, 
And then he whisked his tail. 

The other day I chanced that way : 
That steer was grinning yet. 
Six weeks have passed; not yet the last 
Of why that steer they did n't get. 






CHOPO 23 



If they once begin, for hours they'll chin, 
And tell, although they hit him 
And ran all day, how he got away, 
And why they did n't git 'im. 



CHOPO 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written in DeviVs River, Texas, 1901, at Jeneaw, or Juno, 
Lake, when in camp with Frank Wilson. This little horse 
I got from Antelope George at Sierra Blanca, was branded 
O. I rode him from Sierra Blanca to Paris, Texas. This 
song was in my first publication, copyrighted in 1908. 

Through rocky arroyos so dark and so deep; 
Down the sides of the mountains so slippery and 

steep; 
You've good judgment, sure-footed, wherever you 

go 
You're a safety conveyance, my little Chopo. 

Whether single or double, or in lead of a team, 
Over highways or byways or crossing a stream, 
You're always in fix and willing to go 
Whenever you're called on, my Chico Chopo. 

You're a good roping horse; you were never jerked 

down; 
When tied to a steer, you will circle him around; 
Let him once cross the string, and over he '11 go. 
You sabe the business, my cow horse Chopo. 

One day on the Llano, a hail-storm began; 
The herds were stampeded, the horses all ran; 



24 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

The lightning it glittered, a cyclone did blow; 
But you faced the sweet music, my little Chopo. 

Chopo, my pony; Chopo, my pride; 
Chopo, my amigo ; Chopo I will ride 
From Mexico's border 'cross Texas Llanos; 
To the salt Pecos River I ride you, Chopo. 

CHUCK-TIME ON THE ROUND-UP 

By Austin Corcoran, Grand Junction, Colorado 

I first heard it sung at Monte Vista, Colorado, by Jack 
Brenner. 

It was chuck-time on the round-up, and we heard 

"Old Doughy" shout — 
"You had better come and get this or I'll throw the 

whole thing out." 
So we headedf or the wagon like wild stampededherd, 
Fearful every minute lest the cook might keep his 

word. 

The way we gathered round that mess-box, scram- 

blin' for tools, 
Showed the disregard for ethics that is taught in 

other schools; 
But what we lacked in manners we made up in 

friendly strife, 
To see who'd get through quickest with the stuff 

that prolongs life. 

And " Old Doughy " stood and watched us with the 

pot-hook in his hands 
That he used for liftin' covers from the pots and 

fryin'-pans ; 



CHUCK-TIME ON THE ROUND-UP 25 

And also used to carry out remarks he 'd sometimes 

make 
To any thoughtless rider who, in fear of bein' late, 
Would ride too near the pot-rack and start a lot of 

dust 
That would settle in his kitchen 'til "Cooke's" 

rage would bust. 

For "Doughy" is particular — that is all there is to 

that; 
But when it comes to sour-dough bread, we all 

take off our hat 
To him, and swear that no matter v/here you'd 

a mind to look, 
You'd never find man to equal "Old Doughy" 

with the hook. 

And when it comes to feedin' men — that is, so 

they '11 stay fed — 
And spend their nights in slumber 'stead o' wres- 

tlin' with the bed, 
Your city chef can learn a lot from our old round-up 

cook, 
Who never learned a thing he knows from recipes 

or book, 
But just practiced on us fellows 'til he learnt all 

there is to know 
About this cookin' business and mixin' sour dough. 

Oh! There's many ways of dinin', from what I've 

read and heard, 
From meals that's served in courses to a "bottle 

and a bird " ; 



26 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

But when it comes to eatin' stuff that tasted good 

all the way, 
I would n't quit a mess-box for a Broadway cafe. 

For when he slides the hooks along the pot-rack, 

piles on wood, 
And while the fire is burnin' down starts mixin' 

somethin' good, 
An* you just keep a-lookin' 'til your eyes begin to 

ache, 
And wonder what new kind of dish " Old Doughy" 

's goin' to make. 
He puts in raisins, sugar, currants, and a lot of other 

stuff, 
'Til all at once you realize you're goin' to have 

"plum duff." 

Now I reckon in the cities they 'd spell that word in 

French, 
'Til you would n't know just what they meant — 

a latigo or cinch — 
And you'd be none the wiser when they set it by 

your plate, 
Nor, after it was eaten could you swear to what 

you ate? 

In fact you would n't know 'til mornin' that you 

had really dined 
And taken in a lot of stuff your in'ards couldn't grind. 
But you get the first reminder along about "last 

guard," 
When that "Frenchy" stuff starts quarrelin' down 

in your "front yard," 



CHUCK-TIME ON THE ROUND-UP 27 

Somethin , like the cattle that start to "millm 1 " in 

the night, 
And try to quit their bed-ground at some imaginary 

fright. 

But unlike the friendly "Dogies," you can't sing 

this stuff to sleep, 
For all the music that goes with it was furnished 

while you eat. 
An* perhaps it's just as well, for you could n't sing 

a note 
With all that sorrow in your pantry and that burnin* 

in your throat 
That is caused by too much vintage of celebrated 

make, 
Which early in the evenin' you thought so nice to take ; 
But later showed developments which led you to 

believe 
That the stuff was manufactured from a kind of 

"loco weed"; 

Then you recall the bottles that were stored away 

so nice, 
With some blankets wrapped around 'em in a bucket 

of cracked ice, 
With their golden yellow labels like the "Dogies" 

from Old Mex, 
And you know it *s somethin' extra by the figures on 

your checks. 

But it differs from those " Dogies" that have crossed 

the Rio Grande, 
For you cannot tell the value by the color or the brand. 



28 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

So you have to take your chances on what 

"Frenchy" minds to serve, 
And try to catch the bedpost as it comes around the 

curve; 
Then commence an awful tussle when you try to 

ride the bunk, 
While the "wireless" keeps you posted on the 

14 doin' down in front." 

For you keep a-hearin' rumors of an international 

riot, 
Caused by the cost of higher livin' on this purely 

foreign diet, 
'Til you are forced to take some issue in the trouble 

near at hand, 
And try to organize your forces to make a final 

stand 
Against this food combine that has got you in its grip, 
'Til you think you're in the stateroom of an ocean- 

goin' ship. 

That seems to take you further from the scenes you 

recognize, 
And you get to wonderin' how it feels when a fellow 

really dies. 
Still you keep on hearin' echoes of last night's food 

and song, 
'Til you realize it's mornin' and the "Frenchy 

Revolution 's " on. 
Of course you may recover, and perhaps you're 

none the worse, 
But for me there's no "swell" eatin' while 

"Frenchy" drives the hearse. 



CHUCK-TIME ON THE ROUND-UP 29 

Oh! You who dine in cities, passing through plate- 
glass doors, 

Winding in around swell tables set on polished 
marble floors, 

Followin' a darky who will show you to your seat, 

While one will take your hat and another brush 
your feet — 

Dinin' with fair ladies while sweet music fills the 
room, 

And you gladly tip the "leader" for the lady's 
favorite tune; 

You who linger long and listen to the things you like 

to hear 
In the swell cafes in cities that to you are always 

dear, 
May think that I am partial to the " cowboy " and 

his "grub," 
But I've dined at all those cafes and was fed once 

at a club, 
And I've come to this conclusion, and right here 

I want to say, 
When you eat at "Cafe Doughy's" you feel all 

right next day, 
For here is "Doughy's" record, and beat it if you 

can — 
He's cooked for us for twenty years and never lost 

a man. 



30 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



A COW-CAMP ON THE RANGE 

Authorship credited to Tom Mew, Oklahoma. First 
heard it sung by Walker Hyde, Three Rivers, New 
Mexico. 

Oh, the prairie dogs are barking, 
And the birds are on the wing, 
See the heel fly chase the heifers, boys! — 
'T is a first-class sign of spring. 
. The elm wood is budding, 
The earth is turning green; 
See the pretty things of nature, 
That make life a pleasant dream! 

I 'm just living through the winter 
To enjoy the coming change, 
For there is no place so homelike 
As a cow-camp on the range. x 

n The boss is smiling sum'tious, 
Radiant as the setting sun; 
But we know he ain't contented, 
For he ain't a-cussin' none. 

The cook is at the chuck-box 
Whistling "Heifers in the Green," 
Making baking-powder biscuits, boys, 
While the pot is biling beans. 
The boys untie their bedding 
And unroll it on the run, 
For they are in a monstrous hurry, - 
For the supper's almost done. 

"Chuck is ready — come en get it!" 
Cried the cook's familiar voice 



THE COWBOY AT CHURCH 31 

As he climbed the wagon wheel 

To watch the cowboys all rejoice. 

Then all thoughts were turned with reverence 

To a plate of beef and beans, 

As we grazed on beef and biscuits 

Like yeaMings on the range. 

To the hot place with your city, 
Where they herd like frightened rats 
On a range so badly crowded 
There ain't room to cuss a cat. 
This life is not so sum'tious, 
I 'm not longing for a change, 
But there is no place so homelike 
As a cow-camp on the range. 

THE COWBOY AT CHURCH 

Author unknown to me, but my hat off to him, whoever 
he may be. Heard it recited by a young high-school girl 
at Montrose, Colorado. 

Some time ago — two weeks or more 

If I remember well — 

I found myself in town, and thought 

I'd knock around a spell; 

When all at once I heard the bell — 

I did n't know 't was Sunday, 

For on the plains we scarcely know 

A Sunday from a Monday — 

A-calling all the people 
From the highways and the hedges, 
And all the reckless throng 
That tread ruin's ragged edges, 



32 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

To come and hear the pastor tell 
Salvation's touching story, 
And how the new road misses hell 
And leads you straight to glory. 

I started by the chapel door, 

But something urged me in, 

And told me not to spend God's day 

In revelry and sin. 

I don't go much on sentiment, 

But tears came to my eyes. 

It seemed just like my mother's voice 

Was speaking from the skies. 

I thought how often she had gone 

With little Sis and me 

To church when I was but a lad, 

'Way back in Tennessee. 

It never once occurred to me 

About not being dressed 

In Sunday rig; but carelessly 

I went in with the rest. 

You should have seen the smiles and shrugs 

As I went walking in, 

As though they thought my leggins 

Worse than any kind of sin; 

Although the honest parson, 

In his vestry garb arrayed, 

Was dressed the same as I was — 

In the trappings of his trade. 

The good man prayed for all the world 
And all its motley crew, 



THE COV/BOY AT CHURCH 33 

For pagan, Hindoo, sinners, Turk, 

And unbelieving Jews, — 

Though the congregation doubtless thought 

That the cowboy as a race 

Were a kind of moral outlaw 

With no good claim to grace. 

Is it very strange that cowboys are 

A rough and reckless crew, 

When their garb forbids their doing right 

As Christian people do? 

That they frequent scenes of revelry ^ 

Where death is bought and sold, liMfjk 

Where at least they get a welcome, 

Though it's prompted by their gold? 

Stranger, did it ever strike you, 
When the winter days are gone, 
And the mortal grass is springing up 
To meet the judgment sun, 
And we 'tend mighty round-ups 
Where, according to the Word, 
The angel cowboy of the Lord 
Will cut the human herd — 

That a heap of stock, that's lowing now 
Around the Master's pen 
And feeding at his fodder stack, 
Will have the brand picked then? 
A brand that when the hair was long 
Looked like the letter C, 
Will prove to be the devil's 
And the brand the letter D ; 



34 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

m 

While many a long-horned puncher — 
I mean just so to speak — 
That has n't had the advantage 
Of the range and gospel creek 
Will get to crop the grasses 
In the pasture of the Lord 
If the letter C showed up 
Beneath the devil's checker-board? 

THE COWBOY AT WORK 

Heard this song sung at a cow-camp in Rocky Arroyo, 
Eddy County, New Mexico. 

You may call the cowboy horned and think him 

hard to tame, 
You may heap vile epithets upon his head; 
But to know him is to like him, notwithstanding his 

hard name, 
For he will divide with you his beef and bread. 

If you see him on his pony as he scampers o'er the 

plain, 
You would think him wild and woolly to be sure; 
But his heart is warm and tender when he sees a 

friend in need, 
Though his education is but to endure. 

When the storm breaks in its fury and lightning's 

vivid flash 
Makes you thank the Lord for shelter and for bed, 
Then it is he mounts his pony and away you see him 

dash, 
No protection but the hat upon his head. 



THE COWBOYS* CHRISTMAS BALL 35 

* 

Such is life upon a cow-ranch and the half was 

never told; 
But you never find a kinder-hearted set 
Than the cattleman at home, be he either young or 

old; 
He's a "daisy from away back," don't forget. 

When you fail to find a pony or a cow that's gone 
astray, 

Be that cow or pony wild or be it tame, 

The cowboy, like the drummer, — and the bed- 
bug, too, they say, — 

Bring him to you, for he gets there just the same. 



THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL 

By Larry Chittenden, of Texas 

/ received this song from Miss Jessie Forbes, at Eddy, 
New Mexico, 1898. I understand it was one of a collection 
of Chittenden's entitled Ranch Verse. 

'Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's 

waters flow, 
Where the cattle are a-browsin' and the Spanish 

ponies grow; 
Where the Northers come a-whistlin' from beyond 

the Neutral Strip; 
And the prairie dogs are sneezin', as though they 

had the grip; 
Where the coyotes come a-howlin' round the 

ranches after dark, 
And the mockin' birds are singin' to the lovely 

medder lark: 



36 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Where the 'possum and the badger and the rattle- 
snakes abound, 

And the monstrous stars are winkin' o'er a wilder- 
ness profound; 

Where lonesome, tawny prairies melt into airy 
streams, 

While the Double Mountains slumber in heavenly 
kinds of dreams; 

Where the antelope is grazin' and the lonely plovers 
call, 

It was there I attended the Cowboys' Christmas 
Ball. 



The town was Anson City, old Jones' county seat, 
Where they raised Polled Angus cattle and waving 

whiskered wheat; 
Where the air is soft and bammy and dry and full 

of health, 
Where the prairies is explodin' with agricultural 

wealth ; 
Where they print the Texas Western, that Hall 

McCann supplies 
With news and yarns and stories, of most amazin' 

size; 
Where Frank Smith " pulls the badger" on knowin' 

tenderfeet, 
And Democracy's triumphant and mighty hard to 

beat; 
Where lives that good old hunter, John Milsap, 

from Lamar, 
Who used to be the sheriff "back east in Paris, 

sah." 



THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL 37 

'T was there, I say, at Anson with the lovely Widder 
Wall, 

That I went to that reception, the Cowboys' Christ- 
mas Ball. 

The boys had left the ranches and come to town in 
piles; 

The ladies, kinder scattering had gathered in for 
miles. 

And yet the place was crowded, as I remember 
well, 

'T was gave on this occasion at the Morning Star 
Hotel. 

The music was a fiddle and a lively tambourine, 

And viol came imported, by the stage from Abilene. 

The room was togged out gorgeous — with mistle- 
toe and shawls, 

And the candles flickered festious, around the airy 
walls. 

The wimmen folks looked lovely — the boys looked 
kinder treed, 

Till the leader commenced yelling "Whoa, fellers, 
let's stampede," 

And the music started sighin' and a-wailin' through 
the hall 

As a kind of introduction to the Cowboys' Christ- 
mas Ball. 

The leader was a feller that came from Thompson's 

ranch, 
They called him Windy Billy from Little Deadman's 

Branch. 



38 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

His rig was kinder keerless, big spurs and high- 
heeled boots; 

He had the reputation that comes when fellers 
shoots. 

His voice was like a bugle upon the mountain 
height; 

His feet were animated and a mighty movin' sight, 

When he commenced to holler, "Now, fellers 
stake your pen. 

Lock horns ter all them heifers and rustle them like 
men; 

Saloot yer lovely critters ; now swing and let 'em go ; 

Climb the grapevine round 'em; now all hands do- 
ce-do. 

You maverick, jine the round-up, jess skip the 
waterfall," 

Huh, hit was gettin' active, the Cowboys' Christ- 
mas Ball. 

The boys was tol'able skittish, the ladies powerful 
neat; 

That old brass viol's music just got there with both 
feet; 

That wailin', frisky fiddle, I never shall forget; 

And Windy kept a-singin' — I think I hear him 
yet — 

" Oh, yes, chase yer squirrels an cut 'em to our side; 

Spur Treadwell to the center, with Cross P Char- 
ley's bride; 

Doc Hollis down the center, and twine the ladies' 
chain; 

Van Andrews, pen the fillies in big T Diamond's 
train. 



THE COWBOYS' CHRISTMAS BALL 39 

All pull your freight together, now swallow fork and 
change ; 

Big Boston, lead the trail herd through little Pitch- 
fork's range. 

Purr round yer gentle pussies, now rope and bal- 
ance all." 

Huh, hit were gettin' active — the Cowboys' Christ- 
mas Ball. 

The dust riz fast and furious ; we all jes' galloped 

round, 
Till the scenery got so giddy that T Bar Dick was 

downed. 
We buckled to our pardners and told 'em to hold 

on, 
Then shook our hoofs like lightnin' until the early 

dawn. 
Don't tell me 'bout cotillions, or germans — no, 

sir-ee ! 
That whirl at Anson City jes' takes the cake with 

me. 
I'm sick of lazy shufflin's, of them I've had my 

fill; 
Give me a frontier break-down backed up by Windy 

Bill. 
McAllister ain't nowhere, when Windy leads the 

show; 
I've seen 'em both in harness, and so I ought ter 

know. 
Oh, Bill, I shan't forget yer, and I oftentimes 

recall 
That lively gaited sworray — the Cowboys' Christ- 
mas Ball. 



4 o SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



THE COWBOY'S DREAM 

Given me by Wait Roberts, Double Diamond Ranch, 
White Mountains, 1898. Authorship ascribed to father 
of Captain Roberts, of the Texas Rangers. 

Last night, as I lay on the prairie, 
And looked at the stars in the skv, 
I wondered if ever a cowboy 
Would drift to that sweet by and by. 

I hear there's to be a grand round-up 
Where cowboys with others must stand, 
To be cut out by the riders of judgment 
Who are posted and know all the brands. 

The trail to that great mystic region 

Is narrow and dim, so they say; 

While the one that leads down to perdition 

Is posted and blazed all the way. 

Whose fault is it, then, that so many 
Go astray, on this wild range fail, 
Who might have been rich and had plenty 
Had they known of the dim, narrow trail? 

I wonder if at the last day some cowboy 
Unbranded and unclaimed should stand, 
Would he be mavericked by those riders of judgment 
Who are posted and know all the brands? 

I wonder if ever a cowboy 
Stood ready for that Judgment Day, 
And could say to the Boss of the Riders, 
"I'm ready, come, drive me away"? 









THE COWBOY'S LAMENT 41 

For they, like the cows that are locoed, 

Stampede at the sight of a hand, 

Are dragged with a rope to the round-up/ 

Or get marked with some crooked man's brand. 

And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling, 
A maverick, unbranded on high, 
And get cut in the bunch with the "rusties" 
When the Boss of the Riders goes by. 

For they tell of another big owner 
Who 's ne'er overstocked, so they say, 
But who always makes room for the sinner 
Who drifts from the straight, narrow way. 

They say he will never forget you, 
That he knows every action and look; 
So for safety you'd better get branded, 
Have your name in the great Tally Book. 

My wish for all cowboys is this: 
That we may meet at that grand final sale; 
Be cut out by the riders of judgment 
And shoved up the dim, narrow trail. 

- THE COWBOY'S LAMENT 

Autho/ship credited to Troy Hale, Battle Creek, Ne- 
braska. I first heard it sung in a bar-room at Wisner, 
Nebraska, about 1886. 

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo, 

As I walked out in Laredo one day, 

I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen, 

Wrapped up in white linen as cold as the clay. 



42 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

" Oh, beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly, 
Play the Dead March as you bear me along; 
Take me to the graveyard, and lay the sod over me, 
For I'm a young cowboy, and I know I've done 
wrong. 

" I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy," — 
These words he did say as I boldly stepped by — 
"Come, sit beside me and hear my sad story; 
I was shot in the breast and I know I must die. 

"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin, 
Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song, 
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod over me, 
For I'ma poor cowboy, and I know I 've done wrong. 

" My friends and relations they live in the Nation, 
They know not where their boy has gone. 
He first came to Texas and hired to a ranchman, 
Oh, I'm a young cowboy, and I know I've done 
wrong. 

" Go write a letter to my gray-haired mother, 
And carry the same to my sister so dear; 
But not a word shall you mention 
When a crowd gathers round you my story to 
hear. 

"There is another more dear than a sister, 
She '11 bitterly weep when she hears I am gone. 
There is another who will win her affections, 
For I'm a young cowboy, and they say I've done 
wrong. 



THE COWBOY'S LAMENT 43 

" Go gather around you a crowd of young cowboys, 
And tell them the story of this my sad fate; 
Tell one and the other before they go further 
To stop their wild roving before 't is too late. 

" Oh, muffle your drums, then play your fifes mer- 
rily; 
Play the Dead March as you bear me along. 
And fire your guns right over my coffin; 
There goes an unfortunate boy to his home. 

" It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing, 
It was once in the saddle I used to be gay; 
First to the dram-house, then to the card-house: 

Got shot in the breast, I am dying to-day. 

1 

"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin; 
Get six pretty maidens to bear up my pall; 
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin, 
Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall. 

" Then swing your rope slowly and rattle your spurs 

lowly, 
And give a wild whoop as you bear me along; 
And in the grave throw me, and roll the sod over 

me, 
For I'm a young cowboy, and I know I've done 

wrong. 

" Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold water, 
To cool my parched lips," the cowboy said; " 
Before I turned, the spirit had left him 
And gone to its Giver — the cowboy was dead. 



44 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly, 

And bitterly wept as we bore him along; 

For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and 

handsome ; 
We all loved our comrade, although he'd done 

wrong. 

THE COWBOY'S LIFE 

Heard this sung at a little round-up at Seven Lakes, 
New Mexico, by a puncher named Spence. 

The bawl of a steer 

To a cowboy's ear 

Is music of sweetest strain; 

And the yelping notes 

Of the gray coyotes 

To him are a glad refrain. 

And his jolly songs 

Speed him along 

As he thinks of the little gal 

With golden hair 

Who is waiting there 

At the bars of the home corral. 

For a kingly crown 

In the noisy town 

His saddle he would n't change; 

No life so free 

As the life we see 

'Way out on the Yaso range. 

His eyes are bright 
And his heart as light 



THE COWBOY'S LIFE 45 

As the smoke of his cigarette; 

There 's never a care 

For his soul to bear, 

No trouble to make him fret. 

The rapid beat 

Of his bronco's feet, 

On the sod as he speeds along, 

Keeps living time 

To the ringing rhyme 

Of his rollicking cowboy's song. 

Hike it, cowboys, 

For the range away 

On the back of a bronc of steel, 

With a careless flirt 

Of the raw-hide quirt 

And the dig of a roweled heel. 

The winds may blow 

And the thunder growl 

Or the breeze may safely moan; 

A cowboy's life 

Is a royal life, 

His saddle his kingly throne. 

Saddle up, boys, 

For the work is play 

When love's in the cowboy's eyes, 

When his heart is light 

As the clouds of white 

That swim in the summer skies. 



46 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

THE COWBOY'S MEDITATION 

/ regret that I do not know the author's name. Have 
tried to locate him, but so far have failed. Heard this 
sung in Bluff City, Utah, by an old puncher named 
Carter. 

At midnight, when the cattle are sleeping, 

On my saddle I pillow my head, 

And up at the heavens lie peeping 

From out of my cold grassy bed; — 

Often and often I wondered, 

At night when lying alone, 

If every bright star up yonder 

Is a big peopled world like our own. 

Are they worlds with their ranges and ranches? 

Do they ring with rough-rider refrains? 

Do the cowboys scrap there with Comanches 

And other Red Men of the plains? 

Are the hills covered over with cattle 

In those mystic worlds far, far away? 

Do the ranch-houses ring with the prattle 

Of sweet little children at play? 

At night, in the bright stars up yonder, 
Do the cowboys lie down to their rest? 
Do they gaze at this old world and wonder 
If rough riders dash over its breast? 
Do they list to the wolves in the canyons? 
Do they watch the night owl in its flight, 
With their horses their only companions 
While guarding the herd through the night? 

Sometimes, when a bright star is twinkling 
Like a diamond set in the sky, 



A COWBOY'S PRAYER 47 

I find myself lying and thinking, 

It may be God's heaven is nigh. 

I wonder if there I shall meet her, 

My mother whom God took away ; 

If in the star-heavens I '11 greet her 

At the round-up that's on the Last Day. 

In the east the great daylight is breaking, 
And into my saddle I spring; 
The cattle from sleep are awaking, 
The heaven- thoughts from me take wing; 
The eyes of my bronco are flashing, 
Impatient he pulls at the reins, 
And off round the herd I go dashing, 
A reckless cowboy of the plains. 

A COWBOY'S PRAYER 

Given me by Phil LeNoir, Secretary of the Las Vegas 
Round- Up. Afterwards found it in Charles Badger 
Clark, Jr.'s, book, "Sun and Saddle Leather." 

Lord, I ain't never lived where churches grow. 

1 like creation better as it stood 
That day You finished it so long ago 

And looked upon Your work and called it good 
I know that others find You in the light 
That's sifted down through tinted window-panes, 
And yet I seem to feel You near to-night 
In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains. 

I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well, 
That You have made my freedom so complete ; 
That I'm no slave of whistle, clock, or bell, 
Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street. 



48 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Just let me live my life as I've begun 
And give me work that's open to the sky; 
Make me a pardner of the wind and sun 
And I won't ask a life that's soft or high. 

Let me be easy on the man that's down; 
Let me be square and generous with all. 
I'm careless, sometimes, Lord, when I'm in town, 
But never let 'em say I'm mean or small! 
Make me as big and open as the plains, 
As honest as the horse between my knees, 
Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains, 
Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze. 

Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget. 
You know about the reasons that are hid. 
You understand the things that gall and fret; 
Why, You know me better than my mother did ! 
Just keep an eye on all that 's done and said, 
Just right me sometimes when I turn aside, 
And lead me on that long dim trail ahead 
That stretches upward toward the Great Divide. 

A COWBOY'S PRIZE 

Published in "Denver Post." I first heard it sung by 
Al Roberts in White Oaks, New Mexico. 

Never was no gal like Mollie 

In creation, I don't think ! 

Hotter 'n a hot tamale; 

Han'some ain't the word to fit 'er — 

She's a beauty head to heel — 

Lightnin'-built git-up-an'-gitter, 

An' as true as polished steel. 



COWBOYS VICTIMIZED 49 

Case o' love at first sight, reckon — 
On my part, you understand — 
An' I swore she'd soon be packin' 
This same ol' cow-puncher's brand. 
Went into the game an' won 'er, 
From all rivals yanked the prize ; 
Cut 'er from the bunch an' run 'er 
Off before their jealous eyes. 

Now she 's mine. There ain't a prouder 
Rider on the ranges, see? 
Mortal could n't yawp no louder 
Crackin' up her worth than mo. 
From the crupper to the snaffle 
She's a thorrerbred, that mare, 
That I won at Johnson's raffle 
At the T ranch on the Bear. 



COWBOYS VICTIMIZED 

By James Barton Adams 

I first heard this song in El Paso, Texas, at a Stock Asso- 
ciation meeting, sung between supper and breakfast by 
a man with a good voice, and long afterward* learned the 
author's name. 

We had all made the guess by the cut of his dress 

an' the tenderfoot style that he slung, 
An' the way that he spun toney language that run 

slick as grease from the p'int of his tongue, 
That he was a red-hotter from over the water, a juke 

or a markis, or wuss, 
Than that in his rank, an' we thought we could bank 

on havin' some fun with the cuss. 



50 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

He talked with a drawl till his words seemed to fall 

reluctant outen his mouth, 
An' the babyish stare in his eyes you would swear 

showed a brain that was stunted by drouth; 
An' the boys o' the range all regarded the strange 

sort o' cuss that had come there to board 
For his health as a snob an* we put up a job that'd 

lower the pride o' my lord. 

He remarked that he could ride anything that wore 

hide; he had rid with the 'ounds, don't ye 

know; 
An' we told him we thought we'd be able to trot out 

a hoss that wa'n't fashioned for show — 
One o' kittenish views that'd serve to amuse of his 

highness if he was inclined 
Fur to try it a whirl, an' he smiled like a girl, an' 

would ride it if we did n't mind. 
An' he went farther with an offer to bet all the 

boodle that we could perduce, 
That he'd ride anything we'd a notion to bring till 

he toned it down tame as a goose. 
An' in manner quite rash our available cash was 

flashed fur to back up our views 
That we'd find him a chunk of quick-action bronc 

that'd buck him plumb outen his shoes! 

We'd a mare in the herd that was reckoned a bird, 

jest a bundle o' git-up-an'-git ; 
Half devil, half hoss, which the same is a cross 

that's productive o' meanness an' grit; 
She had downed every rider that dared get astride 

her and crippled a dozen or so 



COWBOYS VICTIMIZED 51 

Of the fellows who'd said that the hoss wasn't 

bred that could give 'em the wust of a go ; 
So we saddled ol' Satan, the tenderfoot waitin' 

with a grin on his innercent face; 
An* We got him astraddle an' sot in the saddle an* 

seed everything was in place, 
An'jve bid him good-bye with a wink o' the eye at 

each other an' anxiously stood 
Holdin' onto the head o' the bronc till he said we 

might let 'er go if we would. 

If the heavens had fell all around that corral an' 

drowned us in clouds from the skies 
I kin tell you, by gad, that we would n't 'a' had any 

bigger a bunch o' surprise; 
Fur he sot in his seat in the saddle as neat as if 

lollin' around in a chair, 
An* that bronco a-thumpin' the earth an* a-jumpin' 

in spasms right up in the air ; 
Lit a cigarette right in the heat o' the fight an* 

grinned at the animal's jumps, 
Us guys standin' there with a paralyzed stare like 

a bunch o' half -idiot chumps ; 
An' I'm tellin' you, boss, that he stayed with that 

hoss until he got it as meek as a calf, 
An' rid it around on the hoof-battered ground an' 

givin' us fellers the laugh ! 

Every devilish bloke in the gang had gone broke 

a-backin' his honest belief 
That the bronco we'd picked that had never been 

licked 'd sure bring the stranger to grief; 
An' we bellered an' swore till our lungs was plum 






52 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

sore when we learned that the schemin* 
young hound 
Was Bronco Bill Snyder, the champion rider, 
a-huntin' a snap — which he found. 

THE COWMAN'S PRAYER 

DonH know the author's name. Heard it sung in a cow- 
camp near Fort Sumner, on the Pecos River, New 
Mexico. 

Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear, 
The prayer of a cattleman to hear; 
No doubt the prayers may seem strange, 
But I want you to bless our cattle range. 

Bless the round-ups year by year, 
And don't forget the growing steer; 
Water the lands with brooks and rills 
For my cattle that roam on a thousand hills. 

Prairie fires, won't you please stop? 
Let thunder roll, water drop. 
It frightens me to see the smoke; 
Unless it's stopped, I'll go dead broke. 

As you, O Lord, my herd behold, 

It represents a sack of gold; 

I think at least five cents a pound 

Will be the price of beef the year round. 

One thing more and then I'm through, — 
Instead of one calf, give my cows two. 
I may pray different from other men, i 
But I 've had my say, and now, Amen. 



THE CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK 53 



THE CROOKED TRAIL TO HOLBROOK 

Mailed me from Douglas, Arizona, by an old friend 
named Cotton. 

Come, all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco 

steer, 
I'll sing to you a verse or two your spirits for to 

cheer; 
It's all about a trip that I did undergo 
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona, oh. 

It was on the seventeenth of February our herd 

it started out, 
It would have made your hearts jump to hear them 

bawl and shout, 
As wild as any buffalo that ever swam the Platte, 
Those cattle we were driving and every one was 

fat. 

We crossed the Mescal Mountains on the way to 

Hidalgo, 
And when we got to Gilson Flats, Lord, how the 

wind did blow ! 
But our spirits never failed us as onward we did go, — 
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona, oh. 

That night we had a stampede ; Lord, how the cattle 

run! 
We made it to our horses; I tell you, we had fun; 
Over the prickly pear and catclaw brush we quickly 

made our way; 
We thought of our long journey and the girls we'd 

left one day. 



54 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

It's long by Sombserva we slowly punched along, 
While each and every puncher would sing'a hearty 

song 
To cheer up his comrade as onward we did go, — 
On that crooked trail to Holbrook, in Arizona, oh. 

We crossed the Mogollon Mountains where the tall 

pines grow, 
Grass in abundance and rippling streams do flow; 
Our packs were always turning, of course our gait 

was slow, — 
On that crooked trail of Holbrook, in Arizona, oh. 

At last we got to Holbrook — a little gale did blow; 
It blew up sand and pebble stones, and it did n't 

blow them slow. 
We had to drink the water from that muddy little 

stream, 
And swallowed a peck of dirt when we tried to eat 

a bean. 

But the cattle now are shipped and homeward we 

are bound 
With a lot of as tired horses as ever could be 

found, 
Across the reservation no danger did we fear, 
But thought of wives and sweethearts and the ones 

we love so dear. 



CROSSING THE DIVIDE 55 

CROSSING THE DIVIDE 

By J. W. Foley 

One of the best of the lot. Heard this at a round-up in the 
Mogollon Mountains ; sung by a puncher named Freckles. 

Parson, I'm a maverick, just runnin , loose an* 

grazing 
Eatin' where 's th' greenest grass an* drinkin' where 

I choose; 
Had to rustle in my youth an* never had no raisin* ; 
Was n't never halter broke an' I ain't much to lose; 
Used to sleepin' in a bag an' livin' in a slicker; 
Church folks never branded me — I don't know as 

they tried; 
Wish you'd say a prayer for me an' try to make a 

dicker 
For the best they'll give me when I cross the Big 

Divide. 

Tell 'em I ain't corralled a night in more'n twenty; 
Tell 'em I 'm rawboned an' rough an' ain't much for 

looks ; 
Tell 'em I don't need much grief because I've had 

a-plenty ; 
I don't know how bad I am 'cause I ain't kept no 

books. 
Tell 'eml'm a maverick a-runnin' loose unbranded ; 
Tell 'em I shoot straight an' quick an' ain't got much 

to hide; 
Have 'em come an' size me up as soon as I get 

landed, 
For the best they'll give me when I cross the Great 

Divide. 



56 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Tell 'em I rode straight an' square an* never grabbed 

for leather; 
Never roped a crippled steer or rode a sore-backed 

horse ; 
Tell 'em I've bucked wind an* rain an' every sort 

of weather, 
Had my tilts with A. K. Hall an 1 Captain R. E. 

Morse. 
Don't hide nothin' from 'em, whether it be sweet 

or bitter, 
Tell 'em I'll stay on th' range, but if I'm shut 

outside 
I'll abide it like a man because I ain't no 

quitter ; 
I ain't going to change just when I cross th' Big 

Divide. 

Tell 'em, when th' Roundup comes for all us human 

critters, 
Just corral me with my kind an' run a brand on 

me; 
I don't want to be corralled with hypocrites an' 

quitters ; 
Brand me just for what I am — an' I 'm just what 

you see. 
I don't want no steam-het stall or bran-mash for 

my ration; 
I just want to meet th' boss an' face him honest- 
eyed, 
Show him just what chips I got an' shove 'em in for 

cashin' ; 
That's what you can tell 'em when I cross the Big 

Divide. 



DAN TAYLOR 57 



DAN TAYLOR 

Authorship credited to Len Dor an, Mineral Wells, 
Texas. I first heard it sung by Tom Williamson, while 
carrying a bunch of horses from Monument Springs over 
to Midland, Texas. 

Dan Taylor is a rollicking cuss, 
A frisky son of a gun; 
He loves to court the maidens, 
And he savvies how it's done. 

He used to be a cowboy, 
And they say he was n't slow; 
He could ride the bucking bronco 
And swing the long lasso. 

He could catch a maverick by the head 
Or heel him on the fly; 
He could pick up his front ones 
Whenever he chose to try. 

He used to ride 'most anything; 
Now he seldom will. 
He says they cut some caper in the air 
Of which he's got his fill. 

He is done and quit the business, 
Settled down to quiet life, 
And he's hunting for some maiden 
Who will be his wife, — 

One who will wash and patch his britches 
And feed the setting hen, 
Milk old Blue and Brindy, 
And tend to baby Ben. 



58 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Then he'll build a cozy cottage 
And furnish it complete, 
He'll decorate the walls inside 
With pictures new and sweet. 

He will leave off riding broncos 
And be a different man; 
He will do his best to please his wife 
In every way he can. 

Then together in double harness 
They will trot along down the line, 
Until death shall call them over 
To a bright and sunny clime. 

May your joys be then completed 
And your sorrows have an end, 
Is the fondest wish of the writer, — 
Your true and faithful friend. 

A DEER HUNT 

There are several versions of this song. Everybody adds 
a new verse. The author of this no one knows, as the 
original song has been so changed by additions of verses 
that there is little of it left. 

One pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow ; 
I picked my old gun and a-hunting I did go. 

I came across a herd of deer and I trailed them 

through the snow; 
I trailed them to the mountains where straight up 

they did go. 



A DEER HUNT 59 

I trailed them o'er the mountains, I trailed them to 

the brim, 
And trailed them to the waters where they jumped 

in to swim. 

l cocked both my pistols and under water went, — 
To kill the fattest of them deer, that was my whole 
intent. 

While I was under water five hundred feet or more, 
I fired both my pistols — like cannons did they roar. 

I picked up my venison and out of water came, — 
To kill the balance of them deer I thought it was my 
aim. 

So I bent my gun in circles and fired round a hill, 
And out of three or four deer ten thousand I did kill. 

Then I picked up my venison and on my back I tied, 
And as the sun came passing by I hopped up there 
to ride. 

The sun she carried me o'er the globe; so merrily 

I did roam 
That in four and twenty hours I landed safe at 

home. 

And the money I received for my venison and skin, 
I taken it all to the barn door and it would not all go in. 

And if you doubt the truth of this I tell you how to 

know: 
Just take my trail and go my rounds as I did long 

ago. 



60 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

And if you get there before I do, and in case you do 

not find me, 
I '11 just back trail for a year or two, for the gal I left 

behind me. 

DOWN ON THE OL> BAR-G 

By Phil LeNoir 

The boss he took a trip to France, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
He left his gal to run the ranch, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
She would n't let us chew nor cuss, 
Had to keep slicked up like a city bus, 
So round-up time was u-nan-i-mous, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 

Our round-up cook he soon got th'u, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
Found his clay pipe right in the stew, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
But when we let that feller go 
We married grief an' we married woe, 
For the gal opined she'd bake the dough, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 

Wisht you'd seen her openin' meal 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
We all blinked twict — seemed plumb unreal, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
We had figs an' fudge an' whipped-up pru-in 
An' angel-cake all dipped in goo-in, 
"My Gawd," said Tex, "my stomick's ruin'" 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 






THE DREARY, DREARY LIFE 61 

We quit that job an' cook-la-dee, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
An' pulled our freight for the lone prair-ee, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 
For out on the range we could chew an* cuss 
An* git real mean an' bois-ter-uss, 
Whar apron-strings they could n't rope us, 

Down on the oV Bar-G. 

THE DREARY, DREARY LIFE 

An old song, a jumble of several. Authorship unknown. 
I first heard it at Kingston, New Mexico, sung by a man 
named Sam Jackson. 

A cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, 
Some say it's free from care; 
Rounding up the cattle from morning till night 
On the bald prairie so bare. 

Just about four o'clock old cook will holler out, 
"Roll out, boys, it's almost day." 
Through his broken slumbers the puncher he will ask, 
Has the short summer night passed away? 

The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, 
He's driven through the heat and cold; 
While the rich man 's a-sleeping on his velvet couch, 
Dreaming of his silver and gold. 

When the spring work sets in, then our troubles 

will begin, 
The weather being fierce and cold; 
We 're almost froze, with the water on our clothes, 
And the cattle we can scarcely hold. 



62 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

The cowboy's life is a dreary, weary one, 
He works all day to the setting of the sun; 
And then his day's work is not done, 
For there's his night guard to go on. 

"Saddle up! Saddle up!" the boss will holler out, 
When camped down by the Pecos Stream, 
Where the wolves and owls with their terrifying howls 
Will disturb us in our midnight dream. 

You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of 

your charms, 
You are speaking of your silver and gold ; 
But a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, 
He 's driven through the heat and cold. 

Once I loved to roam, but now I stay at home : 

All you punchers take my advice ; 

Sell your bridle and your saddle, quit your roaming 

and your travels, 
And tie on to a cross-eyed wife. 

THE DYING COWBOY 

Authorship credited to H. demons, Deadwood, Dakota, 
1872. I first heard it from Kearn Carico, at Norfolk, 
Nebraska, in 1886. 

"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie"; 
Those words came slow and mournfully 
From the pallid lips of a youth that lay 
On his dying couch at the close of day. 

He had wasted and pined till o'er his brow 
Death's shadows fast were drawing now; 
He had thought of home and the loved ones nigh, 
As the cowboys gathered to see him die. 



THE END OF THE YAQUI TRAIL 63 

How oft have I listened to those well-known words, 
The wild wind and the sound of birds; 
He had thought of home and the cottonwood boughs, 
Of the scenes that he loved in his'childhood hours. 

"I have always wished to be laid, when I died, 
In the old churchyard on the green hillside, 
By the grave of my father, oh, let my grave be; 
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie. 

"I wish to be laid where a mother's care 
And a sister's tear can mingle there; 
Where friends can come and weep o'er me; 
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie. 

"Oh, bury me not — " and his voice failed there; 
They paid no heed to his dying prayer; 
In a narrow grave just six by three, 
They laid him there on the lone prairie. 

Where the dewdrops fall and the butterfly rests, 
The wild rose blooms on the prairie's crest, 
Where the coyotes howl and the wind sports free, 
They laid him there on the lone prairie. 

THE END OF THE YAQUI TRAIL 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written while near Altar, in State of Sonora, old Mexico, 
south of El Sarsabi, receiving a herd of steers for Allen 
& Robinson, of the Lamy Grant, near Santa Fe, 1914. 

Living long lives in Sonora, nested 'mongst moun- 
tains high, 

In close commune with the eagles that soar the 
Southern sky; 



64 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Living by hunting and fishing, raising their Indian 

corn, 
High in the Sierra Madres, 't was there the Yaquis 

were born. 

Loud in their childish prattle, playing with sticks 

and stones; 
Each one a future warrior born to defend their 

homes ; 
Sons of Spartan mothers, reared in those mountains 

high, 
Satisfied with a peaceful life just as you or I. 

Crooning to their papooses just like your mam- 

mie or mine, 
Squaws of a hardy nation, stoics and last of their 

line; 
With every man's hand against them, driven from 

crag to fen, 
God in His mercy defend them, for still they are 

mothers of men. 

From the days of Don Velasquez, Alvarado, and 
Hernan Cortez, 

Victoria Pednaza, Santana, and Porfirio Diaz, 

They've driven them into slavery through Jalisco 
to Michoacan, 

Through Guerrero Oaxaca Campeche to the jute- 
fields of Yucatan. 

Save them till Montezuma, God of the Indian race, 
Who, according to ancient tradition, shall some 
day come out of the East, 



THE FATE OF THE BEEF STEER 65 

And call all the braves and warriors above and be- 
neath the sod 

To rally around his standard and pay homage to 
their God. 

THE FATE OF THE BEEF STEER 

By J. W. Foley 

Heard this sung at a cow-camp at Solidad Ranch, New 
Mexico. 

Hush-a-by, Long Horn, your pards are all sleepin' ; 
Stop your durn millin' an' tossin' your head, 
Wavin' your horns so unrestful, an' sweepin' 
All of the beef herd with eyes big an* red. • 
Mebbe you know when you're pawin' the dust up, 
Bellerin' ugly an* switchin' your tail; 
Mebbe you know when you are nearin' the bust-up, 
Nearin' the quittin' place — end of the trail. 

Say, it's a queer trail that you've got to f oiler, 
Scattered all over the face of the land, 
All of you made into goods but the holler, , 
Part of you bottled an' part of you canned. 
Wait till they're through with you till you knock 

under ; 
You've got so ticklish a journey to go. 
All of the round-ups between here an' thunder 
Could n't locate you, they'll scatter you so. 

You think we crowd you — you '11 have to go faster; 
You ain't all steak — you'll discover that, too; 
Wait till they put your red hair into plaster, 
Boil down your hoofs into Stickum's Best Glue; 



66 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

All of the grief in this world ain't bad weather; 
Better lie down there an' take a short snooze. 
Wait till they tan your tough hide into leather; 
Wait till some feller is wearin' your shoes. 

You don't know where you will have to go roamin', 
What will be eatin' an' what will be worn; 
Mebbe some woman in New York will be combin' 
Out her back hair with a piece of your horn; 
Mebbe the same time your tail will be traveling 
Cooked into soup for some tenderfoot's feed; 
Some of your hide in a rope they'll be ravelin', 
All of your irtfnards gone on a stampede. 

Better lie down there an' rest up, 01' Ranger; 
You ain't nigh come to the end of your trail; 
Mebbe some woman, to you perfect stranger, 
Will brush up crumbs with the end of your tail. 
Don't pay to be too durn proud of your beller; 
You ain't the only bad steer up north; 
Wise to remember that no livin' feller 
Ever can tell what a day will bring forth. 

FIGHTIN' MAD 

Received from Miss Jean Beaumondy, Colorado Springs 
Round-up, 1911. Jean was then the champion girl trick 
roper of the world. 

I 've swum the Colorado where she runs down close 

to hell; 
I've braced the faro layouts at Cheyenne; 
I've fought at muddy waters with a howling bunch 

of Sioux, 
And I've eaten hot tamales in Cayenne. 



FORGET THE EAST 67 

I've rid a pitchin' bronco till the sky was under- 
neath; 

I've tackled every desert in the land; 

I've sampled four X whiskey till I could n't hardly 
see, 

And I 've dallied with the quicksands of the Grand. 

I 've argued with the marshals of a half-dozen burgs ; 
I've been drug free and fancy by a cow; 
I've had three years' campaignin' with the fight- 
in', bitin' Ninth; 
But I never lost my temper till right now. 

I 've had the yellow fever, I 've been plugged full of 

holes, 
I've grabbed an army mule plumb by its tail. 
But I never was fightin', really downright fightin* 

mad, 
Till you ups and hands me that damn ginger ale. 

FORGET THE EAST 
By N. Howard Thorp 

Oh, come en ride the Western range along with 

Blue en me; 
Forget your cares and worries — jest play you're 

young en free. 
You '11 see the high Cliff Dwellings, built by a race 

of old ; 
You'll see the Spanish diggin's, where the Padres 

got their gold; 
You'll see the Penitentes in their quaint religious 

Play, 
Their crosses en Morada, in which they go to pray. 



68 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

You'll see the Matachines in a dance that's all their 

own; 
The wild Comanches on horseback as they storm 

a native home. 
You'll find there 's no restrictions on what you have 

to do, 
En scenes change like the seasons, each day brings 

something new. 
Wear old clothes, hunt, fish, en idle ; do exactly as 

you please, 
Forget set rules en schedules — with a good horse 

between your knees. 

FRIJOLE BEANSES 

By N. Howard Thorp 
1919 
I've cooked you in the strongest gypsum water; 
I've boiled you up in water made of snow; 
I've eaten you above the Arctic Circle, 
I've chewed on you in southern Mexico. 
In the camp-fire, on the stove, or in the oven, 
Or buried in the ashes overnight, 
You've saved my life on more than one occasion — 
Oh, frijole bean, you're simply out of sight. 

Of course you know, as far as one's digestion 
Is concerned, you'd ever break it plumb in two 
Without a single moment's hesitation — 
Least that's the reputation given you. 
Well here's to your health, you little brown frijole, 
Your health I'll pledge and by you always stand; 
You're eaten by the rich and by the lowly, 
You're an outlawed product of our Western land. 



THE GAL I LEFT BEHIND ME 69 

Oh, little bean about you's such a savor, 

Such a muchness, such a taste that you have got; 

A particularly satisfying flavor 

When we've added sow and chile to the pot. 

Then good-bye, my little pard, I hate to leave you, 

You've been with me on many a long hike; 

So I '11 eat the last of you that is in the skillet, 

Then saddle up old buck and hit the pike. 

THE GAL I LEFT BEHIND ME 

This song is so old that all the descendants of the author, 
"/ understand," have died of old age. I believe it was the 
first cow song I ever heard. 

I struck the trail in seventy-nine, 

The herd strung out behind me; 

As I jogged along my mind ran back 

For the gal I left behind me. 

That sweet little gal, that true little gal, 

The gal I left behind me ! 

If ever I get off the trail 

And the Indians they don't find me, 

I '11 make my way straight back again 

To the gal I left behind me. 

That sweet little gal, that true little gal, 

The gal I left behind me! 

The wind did blow, the rain did flow, 

The hail did fall and blind me ; 

I thought of that gal, that sweet little gal, 

That gal I'd left behind me! 

That sweet little gal, that true little gal, 

The gal I left behind me ! 



70 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

She wrote ahead to the place I said, 

I was always glad to find it; 

She says, " I am true ; when you get through, 

Ride back and you will find me." 

That sweet little gal, that true little gal, 

The gal I left behind me ! 

When we sold out, I took the train, 
I knew where I would find her; 
When I got back we had a smack, 
And that was no gol-darned liar. 
That sweet little gal, that true little gal, 
The gal I left behind me! 



GET ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES 

Heard this song sung in Tombstone, Arizona, by Jim 
Falls, 

As I walked out one morning for pleasure, 

I spied a cow-puncher all riding alone; 

His hat throwed back and his spurs was a-jinglin* 

As he approached me a-singin' this song: 

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, 
It's your misfortune, and none of my own. 
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little dogies, 
For you know Wyoming will be your new home. 

Early in the spring we round up the dogies, 
Mark and brand and bob off their tails; 
Round up our horses, load up the chuck-wagon, 
Then throw the dogies upon the North trail. 



THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL *jl 

It's whoopin' and yellin' and drivin' the dogies; 
Oh, how I wish you would go on; 
It's whoopin' and punchin', go on, little dogies, 
For you know Wyoming will be your new home. 

Some boys go up the trail for pleasure, 
But that's where you get it most awfully wrong; 
For you have n't an idea the trouble they give us 
While we go drivin' them all along. 

Your mother she was raised 'way down in Texas, 
Where the jimson weed and sand-burrs grow; 
Now we '11 fill you up on prickly pear and cholla, 
Till you are ready for the trail to Idaho. 

Oh, you'll be soup for Uncle Sam's Injuns; 
"It's beef, heap beef," I hear them cry. 
Git along, git along, little dogies, 
You're goin' to be beef steers by and by. 

THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL 

Mailed me by a friend from Marfa y Texas, who heard it 
sung by a cow-puncher named Hudspeth. 

I can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly 

West; 
I can ride him, I can break him, let him do his level 

best; 
I can handle any cattle who ever wore a coat of hair, 
And I've had a lively russle with a tarnal grizzly 

bear; 
I can rope and throw the longhorn of the wildest 

Texas brand, 
And in Indian disagreements I can play a leading 

hand; 



72 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

But at last I got my master, and he surely made me 

squeal, 
When the boys got me a-straddle of that gol-darned 

wheel. 

It was at the Eagle Ranch on the Brazos, 

When I first found that darned contrivance that 

upset me in the dust. 
A tenderfoot had brought it; he was wheeling all 

the way 
From the sunrise end of freedom out to San Fran- 
cisco Bay. 
He tied up at the ranch for to get outside a meal, 
Never thinkm' we would monkey with his gol- 
darned wheel. 

Arizona Jim begun it when he said to Jack McGill, 

There was fellows forced to limit braggin' on their 
ridin' skill; 

And he'd venture the admission the same fellow 
that he meant 

Was a very handy critter far as ridin* broncos went; 

But he would find that he was buckm' 'gainst a dif- 
ferent kind of deal 

If he threw his leather leggins 'gainst a gol-darned 
wheel. 

Such a slam against my talent made me hotter tha J 

a mink, 
And I swore that I would ride him for amusement or 

for chink. 
And it was nothin* but a plaything for the kids and 

such about, 



THE GOL-DARNED WHEEL 73 

And they'd have their ideas shattered if they'd lead 
the critter out. 

They held it while I mounted and gave the word 
to go; 

The shove they gave to start me warn't unreason- 
ably slow. 

But I never spilled a cuss-word and I never spilled 
a squeal — 

I was buildin' reputation on that gol-darned wheel. 

Holy Moses and the Prophets how we split the 

Texas air, 
And the wind it made whip-crackers of my same old 

canthy hair, 
And sorta comprehended as down the hill we went 
There was bound to be a smash-up that I could n't 

well prevent. 
Oh, how them punchers bawled, " Stay with her, 

Uncle Bill! 
Stick your spurs in her, you sucker, turn her muzzle 

up the hill!" 
But I never made an answer; I just let the cusses 

squeal, 
I was buildin' reputation on that gol-darned wheel. 

The grade was mighty slopin' from the ranch down 
to the creek, 
nd I went a-galliflutin' like a crazy lightnin' 

streak — 
/ent whizzin' and a-dartin' first this way and then 
that, 
The darned contrivance sort o' wobbling like the 
flyin' of a bat. 



74 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

I pulled upon the handles, but I could n't check it up, 
And I yanked and sawed and hollowed, but the 

darned thing would n't stop. 
Then a sort of a thinker in my brain began to steal, 
That the devil held a mortgage on that gol-darned 

wheel. 

I've sort o' dim and hazy remembrance of the stop, 
With the world a-goin' round and the stars all 

tangled up; 
Then there came an intermission that lasted till I 

found 
I was lyin' at the ranch with the boys all gathered 

round, 
And a doctor was sewin' on the skin where it was 

ripped, 
And old Arizona whispered, " Well, old boy, I guess 

you're whipped." 
And I told him I was busted from sombrero down 

to heel, 
And he grinned and said, " You ought to see that 

gol-darned wheel." 

GREASER JOE'S PLACE 

From the "Denver Republican." 

You kin brag of city caffeys and their trout from 
streams and lakes. 

Of their meals served a la carty and their mush- 
rooms and their steaks; 

But the grub at Greaser Joe's is the finest ever dealt : 

Come, hombrey, and jest tuck a bowl of chile 
'neath your belt! 



THE GREAT ROUND-UP 75 

The music 's kind o' skimpin' and it don't go very far ; 
It's dealt out by a half-breed and a mighty bad 

guitar; 
Eut old Joe is a winner when it comes to mixin' dope, 
And the first smell of his chile 'd give a dyin' hoss- 

thief hope. 

There is sometimes rough stunts doin' and p'r'aps 

some powder burnt, 
For the men who eat at Joe's all the p'litest ways 

ain't learnt; 
But good food is like to most things that are scarce 

and hard to get — 
It's worth some risk in trallin' and a-makin' yours, 

you bet ! 

So jest come with me to Joe's where there ain't no 

menu stunt, 
Where the tablecloths is minus and a napkin's 

an affront, 
And you'll get a bowl of chile that'll warm you 

through and through, 
So come with me to Jose's, you tenderfoot — yes, 

you! 

THE GREAT ROUND-UP 

/ first heard this song sung by Sally White, at Toya, 
Texas, in 1909, although a slightly different version was 
published in my first edition of "Songs of the Cowboys. 11 

When I think of the last great round-up, 

On the eve of eternity's dawn, 

I think of the past of the cowboys 

Who have been with us here and are gone. 



76 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

And I wonder if any will greet me 
On the sands of the evergreen shore 
With a hearty, " God bless you, old fellow," 
That I've met with so often before. 

I think of the big-hearted fellows 

Who will divide with you, blanket and bread, 

With a piece of stray beef well roasted, 

And charge for it never a red. 

I often look upward and wonder 

If the green fields will seem half so fair, 

If any the wrong trail have taken 

And fail to "be in" over there. 

For the trail that leads down to perdition 

Is paved all the way with good deeds, 

But in the great round-up of ages, 

Dear boys, this won't answer your needs. 

But the way to the green pastures, though narrow, 

Leads straight to the home in the sky, 

And Jesus will give you the passports 

To the land of the sweet by and by. 

For the Saviour has taken the contract 
To deliver all those who believe, 
At the headquarters ranch of His Father, 
In the great range where none can deceive. 
The Inspector will stand at the gateway 
And the herd, one by one, will go by, — 
The round-up by the angels in judgment 
Must pass 'neath His all-seeing eye. 

No maverick or slick will be tallied 

In the great book of life in his home, 

For he knows all the brands and the earmarks 

That down through the ages have come. 



HELL IN TEXAS 77 

But along with the tailings and sleepers 
The strays must turn from the gate; 
No road brand to gain them admission, 
But the awful sad cry of " too late." 

Yet I trust, in the last great round-up, 
When the rider shall cut the big herd, 
That the cowboys shall be represented 
In the eajmark and brand of the Lord; 
To be shipped to the bright mystic regions 
Over there in green pastures to lie, 
And led by the crystal still waters, 
In that home of the sweet by and by. 

HELL IN TEXAS 

This song was originally entitled " The Birth of New 
Mexico." I have five different versions of it. As each 
version is supposed to be by a different author, and I can 
only procure the names of three of them, I shall brand it 
as a "maverick" and let it go at that. 

The Devil we're told in hell was chained, 
And a thousand years he there remained; 
He never complained nor did he groan, 
But determined to start a hell of his own, 
Where he could torment the souls of men 
Without being chained in a prison pen. 
So he asked the Lord if he had on hand. 
Anything left when he made the land. 

The Lord said, " Yes, I had plenty on hand 

But I left it down on the Rio Grande ; 

The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor 

I don't think you could use it in hell any more." 



78 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

But the Devil went down to look at the truck, 
And said if it came as a gift he was stuck; 
For after examining it carefully and well, 
He concluded the place was too dry for hell. 

So in order to get*it off his hands, 
The Lord promised the Devil to water the lands; 
For he had some water, or rather some dregs, 
A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs. 
Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given, 
And the Lord went back to his home in heaven. 
And the Devil then said, " I have all that is needed 
To make a good hell," and hence he succeeded. 

He began to put thorns in all of the trees, 
And mixed up the sand with millions of fleas; 
And scattered tarantulas along all the roads; 
Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads. 
He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers, 
And put an addition on the rabbit's ears; 
He put a little devil in the bronco steed, 
And poisoned the feet of the centipede. 

The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings, 
The mosquito delights you with buzzing wings; 
The sand-burrs prevail, and so do the ants, 
And those who sit down need half-soles on their 

pants. 
The Devil then said that throughout the land 
He'd managed to keep up the Devil's own brand, 
And all would be mavericks unless they bore 
The marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the 

score. 



THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN 79 

The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten, 

Too hot for the Devil and too hot for men; 

The wild boar roams through the black chaparral, — 

It's a hell of a place he has for a hell! 

The red pepper grows on the banks of the brooks ; 

The Mexicans use it in all that they cook. 

Just dine with a Greaser, and then you will shout, 

"I've hell on the inside as well as the out." 



THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN 

Heard this sung at a cow-camp near Pontoon Crossing, 
on the Pecos River, by a puncher named Jack Moore. 

A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor, 
Having drunk so much he could drink no more; 
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain 
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train. 

The engine with murderous blood was damp, 
And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp ; 
An imp for fuel was shoveling bones, 
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans. 

The boiler was filled with lager beer, 
[And the Devil himself was the engineer; 
The passengers were a most motley crew, — 
Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew; 

Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags; 
Handsome young ladies, withered old hags; 
Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white, 
All chained together, — O God, what a sight ! 



8o SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

While the train rushed on at an awful pace, 

The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and 

face; 
Wider and wider the country grew, 
As faster and faster the engine flew. 

Louder and louder the thunder crashed, 
And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed ; 
Hotter and hotter the air became, 
Till the clothes were burnt from each quivering 
frame. 

And out of the distance there arose a yell, 
"Ha, ha," said the Devil, "we're nearing hell!" 
Then, oh, how the passengers shrieked with 

pain, 
And begged the Devil to stop the train. 

But he capered about and danced with glee, 
And laughed and joked at their misery. 
"My faithful friends, you have done the work, 
And the Devil never can a payday shirk. 

" You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor; 
The starving brother you've turned from the door; 
You've laid up gold where the canker rust, 
And have given free vent to your beastly lust. 

"You've justice scorned and corruption sown, 

And trampled the laws of nature down; 

You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and 

lied, 
And mocked at God in your hell-born pride. 



HIGH-CHIN BOB 81 

" You have paid full fare, so I'll carry you through; 
For it's only right you should have your due. 
Why, the laborer always expects his hire, 
So I '11 land you safe in the lake of fire — 

" "Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar, 
And my imps torment you forever more." 
Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry, 
His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high. 

Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that 

hour 
To be saved from his sin and the demon's power. 
And his prayers and his vows were not in vain; 
For he never rode the hell-bound train. 



HIGH-CHIN BOB 

By Charles Badger Clark, Jr. 

This song was brought to Santa Fe by Henry Herbert 
Knibbs, who got it from southern Arizona, where it was 
sung by the cowboys. The song was written by Charles 
Badger Clark, Jr., and the original version is in his "Sun 
and Saddle Leather" under the title of "The Glory 
Trail." 

'Way high up in the Mokiones, among the moun- 
tain-tops, 

A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones and licked his 
thankful chops; 

When who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin* 
down the slope, 

But High-Chin Bob of sinful pride and maverick- 
hungry rope. 



82 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

" Oh, glory be to me! " says he, " art fame's unfadin' 

flowers, 
I ride my good top-hoss to-day and I'm top hand 

of the Lazy- J, 
So Kitty-cat, you're ours!* 9 

The lion licked his paws so brown and dreamed soft 

dreams of veal, 
As High-Chin's loop come circlm' down and roped 

him round his meal; 
He yowled quick fury to the world and all the hills 

yelled back: 
That top-hoss give a snort and whirled and Bob 

caught up the slack. 

" Oh, glory be to me! " says he, " we HI hit the glory 

trail. 
No man has looped a lion's head and lived to drag 

the bugger dead, 
Till I shall tell the tale.' 9 

'Way high up in the Mokiones that top-hoss done 
his best 

'Mid whippin' brush and rattlin* stones from canon- 
floor to crest; 

Up and down and round and cross Bob pounded 
weak and wan, 

But pride still glued him to his hoss and glory drove 
him on: 

" Oh, glory be to me, 9 ' says he, " this glory trail is 

rough, 
I'll keep this dally round the horn until the toot 

of judgment morn, 
Before I holler 'nough!' 9 



HIGH-CHIN BOB 83 

Three suns had rode their circle home beyond the 
desert rim 

And turned their star herds loose to roam the 
ranges high and dim, 

And whenever Bob turned and hoped the limp re- 
mains to find, 

A red-eyed lion, belly-roped, but healthy, loped 
behind! 

" Oh, glory be to me," says Bob, "he kainH be 

drug to death! 
These heroes that Pve read about were only fools 

that stuck it out 
To the end of mortal breath!" 

'Way high up in the Mokiones, if you ever come 

there at night, 
You'll hear a ruckus amongst the stones that'll 

lift your hair with fright; 
You'll see a cow-hoss thunder by and a lion trail 

along, 
And the rider bold, with chin on high, sings forth 

his glory song; 

" Oh, glory be to me! " says he, " and to my mighty 

noose! 
Oh, pardner, tell my friends below I took a ragin y 

dream in tow, 
And if I did n't lay him low, — / never turned him 

loose ! " 



84 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



JOHN GARNER'S TRAIL HERD 

Written by one of the waggoners at Fort Worth, Texas, 
many years ago. I first heard it sung in the Spearfish 
Valley, Dakota. 

Come, all you old-timers, and listen to my song; 
I'll make it short as possible and I'll not keep you 

long; 
I'll relate to you about the time you all remember 

well 
When we with old Joe Garner drove a beef herd up 

the trail. 

When we left the ranch it was early in the spring, 
We had as good a corporal as ever rope did 

swing; 
Good hands and good horses, good outfit through 

and through, — 
We went well equipped, we were a jolly crew. 

We had no little herd — two thousand head or 

more — 
And some as wild brush beeves as you ever saw 

before. 
We swung to them all the way and sometimes by 

the tail, — 
Oh, you know we had a circus as we all went up the 

trail. 

Till we reached the open plains everything went 

well, 
And then them cattle turned in and dealt us merry 

heU. 



JOHN GARNER'S TRAIL HERD 85 

They stampeded every night that came and did it 

without fail, — 
Oh, you know we had a circus as we all went up the 

trail. 

We would round them up at morning and the boss 

would make a count, 
And say, "Look here, old punchers, we are out 

quite an amount; 
You must make all losses good and do it without 

fail, 
Or you'll never get another job driving up the 

trail." 

When we reached Red River v/e gave the Inspector 

the dodge. 
He swore by God Almighty in jail old Joe should 

lodge. 
We told him if he'd taken our boss and had him 

locked in jail, 
We would shore get his scalp as we all came down 

the trail. 

When we reached the Reservation how squirmish 

we did feel, 
Although we had tried old Garner and knew him 

true as steel. 
And if we would follow him and do as he said to, 
That old bald-headed cow-thief would surely take 

us through 

When we reached Dodge City we drew our four 

months' pay : 
Times was better then, boys, than they are to-day. 



86 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

The way we drank and gambled and threw the girls 

around, — 
11 Say, a crowd of Texas cowboys has come to take 

our town." 

The cowboy sees many hardships, although he takes 

them well ; 
The fun we had upon that trip no human tongue 

can tell. 
The cowboy's life is a dreary life, though his mind 

it is no load, 
And he always spends his money like he found it 

in the road. 

If ever you meet old Garner, you must meet him on 

the square, 
For he is the biggest cow-thief that ever tramped 

out there. 
But if you want to hear him roar and spin a lively 

tale, 
Just ask him about the time we all went up the trail. 



THE JOLLY COWBOY 

First heard this sung by Dick Wilson, El Paso, Texas. 
Author unknown. 

My lover is a cowboy, he 's brave and kind and true ; 

He rides a Spanish pony, he throws a lasso too; 

And when he comes to see me our vows we do re- 
deem, 

He throws his arms around me and thus begins to 
sing: 



THE JOLLY COWBOY 87 

" Ho, I 'm a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail ; 
Give me my quirt and pony, I 'm ready for the trail ; 
I love the rolling prairies, they're free from care 

and strife, 
Behind a herd of longhorns I'll journey all my life. 

"When early dawn is breaking and we are far 

away, 
We fall into our saddles, we round-up all the day ; 
We rope, we brand, we ear-mark, I tell you we are 

smart, 
And when the herd is ready for Kansas, then we 

start. 

" Oh, I 'm a Texas cowboy, light-hearted, brave, and 

free, 
To roam the wide, wide prairie, 't is always fun for 

me. 
My trusty little pony is my companion true, 
O'er creek and hills and rivers he's sure to pull me 

through. 

" When threatening clouds do gather and blinding 

lightnings flash, 
And heavy raindrops splatter and rolling thunders 

crash; 
What keeps the herd from running stampeding far 

and wide? 
The cowboy's long, low whistle and singing by their 

side. 

"When in Kansas City our boss he pays us up, 
We loaf around the city and take a parting cup ; 



83 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

We bid farewell to the city life, from noisy crowds 

we come, 
And back to dear old Texas, the cowboy's native 

home." 

Oh, he is coming back to marry the only girl he 

loves ; 
He says I am his darling, I am his own true love ; 
Some day we two will marry and then no more he '11 

roam, 
But settle down with Mary in a cozy little home. 

"Ho, I'm a jolly cowboy, from Texas now I hail, 
Give me my bond to Mary, I'll quit the Lone Star 

trail. 
I love the rolling prairies, they're free from care 

and strife, 
But I'll quit the herd of longhorns for the sake of my 

Uttle wife." 



THE LAST LONGHORN 

/ have been unable to trace the authorship of this song. 
Have heard it sung in many places and also recited. 

An ancient long-horned bovine 

Lay dying by the river; 

There was lack of vegetation 

And the cold winds made him shiver; 

A cowboy sat beside him, 

With sadness in his face, 

To see his final passing, — 

This last of a noble race. 



THE LAST LONGKORN 89 

The ancient eunuch struggled 
And raised his shaking head, 
Saying, " I care not to linger 
When all my friends are dead. 
These Jerseys and these Holsteins, 
They are no friends of mine ; 
They belong to the nobility 
Who live across the brine. 

" Tell the Durhams and the Herefords 
When they come a-grazing round, 
And see me lying stark and stiff 
Upon the frozen ground, 
I don't want them to bellow 
When they see that I am dead, 
For I was born in Texas, 
Near the river that is Red. 

" Tell the coyotes, when they come at night, 
A-hunting for their prey, 
They might as well go further, 
For they'll find it will not pay: 
If they attempt to eat me 
They very soon will see 
That my bones and hide are petrified, — 
They'll find no beef on me. 

" I remember in the seventies, 
Full many summers past, 
There was grass and water plenty, 
But it was too good to last. 
I little dreamed what would happen 
Some twenty summers hence, 



90 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

When the nester came with his wife, his kids, 

His dogs, and his barbed-wire fence." 

His voice sank to a murmur, 

His breath was short and quick; 

The cowboy tried to skin him 

When he saw he could n't kick; 

He rubbed his knife upon his boot 

Until he made it shine, 

But he never skinned old longhorn, 

'Caze he could n't cut his rine. 

And the cowboy riz up sadly 
And mounted his cayuse, 
Saying, " The time has come when longhorns 
^. And cowboys are no use." 

And while gazing sadly backward 
Upon the dead bovine 
His bronc stepped in a dog-hole 
And fell and broke his spine. 

The cowboys and the longhorns 
Who pardnered in eighty-four 
Have gone to their last round-up 
Over on the other shore; 
They answered well their purpose, 
But their glory must fade and go, 
Because men say there's better things 
In the modern cattle show. 



LAS VEGAS REUNION 91 

LAS VEGAS REUNION 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written for the annual Las Vegas, New Mexico, Re- 
union. 

Come on, all you cow-punchers, 
To the round-up in July, 
Where the Busters get together, 
En the old broncs go sky-high; 
"We've got 'em spoiled en tricky, 
Outlaws from far en near, 
En we've got the boys to fork 'em, 
Who know not the word of fear. 

The cry of all the cowboys now 

Is "To the Meadow City or bust!" 

From far Colorado's borders 

They come a-spurrin' through the dust. 

You don't see prairie-schooners 

A-headin' now this way, 

But 'mobiles come by thousands 

To the Reunion's openin' day I 

Cow-girls from far Montana 

En the little Prairie Rose, 

They can ride 'em slick en keerless 

Es everybody knows; 

So come on to the Meadow City, 

The key's thrown plumb away, 

En everybody 's welcome 

To the Cowboy's openin' day! 



92 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Chorus 

With angora chaps en carnival hats, 
Checked shirts en handkerchiefs loud, 
Come straddle yer horse en ride with us, 
Come ride with the Wild West crowd! 
Fer we're jest cow-eatin J persons, 
There's a welcome fer every one; 
So whip up yer horse en lope across 
To the Cowboys' Re-un-ion! 



"'LIGHT, STRANGER, 'LIGHT" 

By N. Howard Thorp 

For this is the law of the Western range, 
When a stranger hails in sight — 
" Jest tie up your hoss in the old corral, 
En 'light, stranger, 'light!" 

J T is a land of hospitable people, 
You're welcome in daytime or night; 
Always one more chair at the table, 
So it's "'Light, stranger, 'light!" 

We don't ask no inquisitive questions, 
If your people are native or white; 
At our ranch you will find you are welcome, 
So it's "'Light, stranger, 'light!" 

You may be an outlaw, or preacher, 
Got into some place kinda tight — 
Some day you'll return the favor, 
So it's " 'Light, stranger, 'light!" 



LITTLE ADOBE CASA 93 

We are just plain cow-folks in Texas, 
But you'll find we are all about right; 
You may stay for a year and be welcome, 
So it's "'Light, stranger, 'light!", 

LITTLE ADOBE CASA 

By Tom Beasley 

Written in the spring of 1887 and sung in the cow-camps 
by the author, who had a good voice. While Beasley 
was working for me I heard him sing the song. There 's 
a story about a nugget of gold, Henry Heap (the bank 
watchman in El Paso), and Tom Beasley that some of 
you old-timers may recall, but I canH write it here. 
Remember ? 

Just one year ago to-day, 

I left my Eastern home, 

Hunting for a fortune and for fame. 

Little did I think that now 

I'd be in Mexico 

In this little adobe casa on the plains. 

Chorus 
The roof is ocateo, 
The coyotes far and near; 
The Greaser roams about the place all day; 
Centipedes and tarantulas 
Crawl o'er me while I sleep 
In my little adobe casa on the plains, 

Alacranies on the ceiling, 
Cucarachas on the wall, 
My bill-of-fare is always just the same; 
Frijoles and tortillas 



94 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Stirred up in chile sauce 

In my little adobe casa on the plains. 

But if some dark-eyed mujer 

Would consent to be my wife, 

I would try to be contented and remain 

'Til fate should show a better place 

To settle down for life 

Than this little adobe casa on the plains. 



THE LITTLE COW-GIRL 
By N. Howard Thorp 

Daddy come from Brownsville, 
En Maw from San Antone; 
We come here in a wagon 
That ud rock en squeak en groan; 

We brought our stock en horses; 
The Boys come on afore ; , 

En Dad was playin' all the way 
" Old Turkey in the Straw" ! 

There's me en Sister Annie, 
En Tom, en Si, en Budd; 
We all was raised with cattle, 
So I guess it's in our blood; 

En I shore love the dances — 
Folks say I take after Maw — 
When Dad takes down his fiddle 
En plays "Turkey in the Straw"! 



THE LITTLE COW-GIRL 95 

We ain't jest much on stylish, 
But we got a good Home Ranch, 
En the little old horse-pasture 
Runs clear down to the branch. 

En we're all plumb contented 
Since Dad put hinges on the door, 
En with his old brown fiddle 
Plays "Turkey in the Straw" 1 

I got er pair er shop-made boots 
That Dad had made fer me, 
Er pair er silver-mounted spurs 
Es pretty es can be; 

We ride ter all the dances, 
En when I get on the floor, 
I'm sure to hear Dad playin' 
" Old Turkey in the Straw" ! 

I 've got a young cow-puncher roped, 

I've got 'im on my string, 

En everything is lovely, 

"We'll be married in the spring.; 

Es we ain't much on religion, 
We'll be married by the Law, 
En I kin hear Dad playin' 
"Old Turkey in the Straw"! 



96 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

LITTLE JOE, THE WRANGLER 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written by me on trail of herd of O Cattle from Chimney 
Lake, New Mexico, to Higgins, Texas, 1898. On trail 
were the following men, all from Sacramento Mountains, 
or Crow Flat: Pap Logan, Bill Blevens, Will Brownfield, 
Will Fenton, Life Colfelt, Tom Mews, Frank Jones, and 
myself. It was copyrighted and appeared in my first edi- 
tion of "Songs of the Cowboys" published in 1908. 

Little Joe, the wrangler, will never wrangle more; 

His days with the "remuda" — they are done. 
'T was a year ago last April he joined the outfit here, 

A little "Texas stray" and all alone. 

'T was long late in the evening he rode up to the herd 
On a little old brown pony he called Chow; 

With his brogan shoes and overalls a harder-look- 
ing kid, 
You never in your life had seen before. 

His saddle 't was a Southern kack built many years 
ago, 
An O.K. spur on one foot idly hung, 
While his "hot roll" in a cotton sack was loosely 
tied behind 
And a canteen from the saddle horn he'd slung. 

He said he had to leave his home, his daddy 'd 
married twice, 
And his new ma beat him every day or two; 
So he saddled up old Chow one night and "lit a 
shuck" this way — 
Thought he'd try and paddle now his own canoe. 



LITTLE JOE, THE WRANGLER 97 

Said he'd try and do the best he could if we'd only 
give him work, 
Though he did n't know "straight" up about a 
cow; 
So the boss he cut him out a mount and kinder put 
him on, 
For he sorter liked the little stray somehow. 

Taught him how to herd the horses and learn to 
know them all, 
To round 'em up by daylight; if he could 
To follow the chuck-wagon and to always hitch the 
team 
And help the " cosinero " rustle wood. 

We'd driven to Red River and the weather had 
been fine; 
We were camped down on the south side in a bend, 
When a norther commenced blowing and we 
doubled up our guards, 
For it took all hands to hold the cattle then. 

Little Joe, the wrangler, was called out with the rest, 
And scarcely had the kid got to the herd, 

When the cattle they stampeded; like a hailstorm, 
long they flew, 
And all of us were riding for the lead. 

'Tween the streaks of lightning we could see a 
horse far out ahead — 
'T was little Joe, the wrangler, in the lead ; 
He was riding " Old Blue Rocket" with his slicker 
'bove his head, 
Trying to check the leaders in their speed. 



p8 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

At last we got them milling and kinder quieted 
down, 
And the extra guard back to the camp did go; 
But one of them was missin', and we all knew at a 
glance 
*T was our little Texas stray — poor Wrangler Joe. 

Next morning just at sunup we found where Rocket 
fell, 
Down in a washout twenty feet below; 
Beneath his horse, mashed to a pulp, his spurs had 
rung the knell 
For our little Texas stray — poor Wrangler Joe. 

LOVE ON THE RANGE 

/ got this from Doc Henderson at an Albuquerque Live 
Stock Association meeting. 

Little gal, I *m not a singer ; if I were I 'd sing to you 

A tale of love that sure would be a wonder; 

It would beat them opry singers when they sing, 

" Love I'll be true — 
As true as moon and stars a-shining yonder." 

My hands are big, and clumsy — I can't pick the 

light guitar; 
And no doubt you'll say my lingo's idle prattle; 
But what can you expect? I'm from the Double 

Circle-Bar, 
Where all my ringers learned was punching cattle. 

I know the trail blindfolded and I never knew a fear, 
For I've followed it for years, honeysuckle; 



A MAN NAMED HODS 99 

I can shoot and throw a rope and brand a crazy, 

locoed steer — 
I can ride a bucking bronc and make him knuckle. 

I can quiet restless cattle when the leader's getting 

wild, 
And the lightning flash is 'miff to make you dizzy ; 
I can soothe 'em like a mother when she's croonin' 

to her child — 
But it something makes a man get might busy ! 

But my song — it's meek and humble; there is 

nothing I can sing 
That in any way my sentiments can utter; 
Since I saw your flashing eye, your winning smile 

— yes, everything 
In your outfit — they have set my heart a-flutter. 

So, Chiquita, if you'll let me, I would like to brand 

you mine — 
Will you share with me the storms and sunny 

weather? 
Ah ! Your arms, your lips, Chiquita — they are 

sweeter than old wine ! 
Come, we'll hit life's trail and follow it — together ! 

A MAN NAMED HODS 

Heard this first over on the Via Grande , sung by a 
puncher named Liston. 

Come, all you old cow-punchers, a story I will tell, 
And if you'll all be quiet, I sure will sing it well; 
And if you boys don't like it, you can all go to hell. 



ioo SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Back in the day when I was young, I knew a man 

named Hods; 
He was n't fit fer nothin' cep turnin' up the clods. 

But he came West in fifty-three behind a pair of mules 
And 't was hard to tell between the three which 
was the biggest fools. 

Up on the plains old Hods he got — there his 

trouble began. 
Oh, he sure did get in trouble, — and old Hodsie 

was a man. 

He met a bunch of Indian bucks led by Geronimo, 
And what them Indians did to him — well, shorely 
I don't know. 

But they lifted off old Hodsie's skelp and left him 

out to die, 
And if it hadn't been for me, he'd been in the 

sweet by and by. 

But I packed him to Santa Fe, and there I found his 
mules, 

For them dad-blamed two critters had got the In- 
dians fooled. 

I don't know how they done it, but they shore did 

get away, 
And them two is livin' up to this very day. 

Old Hodsie's feet got toughened up; he got to be 

a sport; 
He opened up a gamblin' house and a place of low 

resort; , • . » 



THE MULE- SKINNERS 101 

He got the prettiest dancing girls that ever could 

be found, — 
Them girls' feet was like rubber balls, they never 

stayed on the ground. 

And then thar came Billy the Kid, he envied Hod- 

sie's wealth; 
He told old Hods to leave the town, 't would be 

better for his health; 
Old Hodsie took the hint and got, but he carried 

all his wealth. 

And he went back to Noo York State with lots of 

dinero 
And now they say he's senator, but of that I shore 

don't know. 

THE MULE-SKINNERS 

Got this song from John Caldwell, at Lake Valley, New 
Mexico. He was bronco-buster for S.L.C. outfit. 

In readin' the story of early days, it's a cause of 

much personal pain 
At the way the author-men leave out us in charge 

of the wagon train ; 
Granted the rest of 'em worked and fit in the best 

way that they could do — 
If it was n't for us that skinned the mules, how 

would the bunch have come through? 

We have frosted ourselves on the prairie sweeps 

a-bringin' the Sioux to book, 
And the sojer men never had no kick that the front 

rank had been forsook; ' 



102 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

They cussed warm holes in the blizzard's teeth 
when waitin' fer grub and tents, 

But the comforts of home we alius brung though 
at times at our expense. 

We have sweated and swore in the desert land 

where the white sand glares like snow, 
A-rompin' around forty rods from hell playin' tag 

with Geronimo; 
We larruped the jacks when the bullets flew and 

then when 't was gettin' too hot, 
We used for our breastworks mules, dead mules, 

and we give 'em back shot for shot. 

We never was rigged up purty, of course, and we 

did n't talk too perlite, 
But we brung up the joltin' wagon train to the trail 

end of every fight; 
We made a trail through the hostile lands and our 

whip was the victory's key, 
So why in the name of all that's fair can't we figger 

in history? 



MUSTANG GRAY 

Authorship credited to Tom Grey, Tularosa, New Mexico. 
I first heard it sung by a man named Sanford, who kept 
a saloon in La Ascension, Mexico, about 1888. 

There was a brave old Texan, 
They called him Mustang Gray; 
He left his home when but a youth, 
Went ranging far away. 



MUSTANG GRAY 103 



But he '11 go no more a-ranging, 
The savage to affright; 
He has heard his last war-whoop, 
And fought his last fight. 

He ne'er would sleep within a tent, 
No comforts would he know; 
But like a brave old Tex-i-can, 
A-ranging he would go. 

When Texas was invaded 

By a mighty tyrant foe, 

He mounted his noble war-horse, 

And a-ranging he did go. 

Once he was taken prisoner, 
Bound in chains upon the way; 
He wore the yoke of bondage 
Through the streets of Monterey. 

A senorita loved him, 

And followed by his side; 

She opened the gates and gave to him 

Her fathers steed to ride. 

God bless the senorita, 

The belle of Monterey, 

She opened wide the prison door, 

And let him ride away. 

And when his veteran's life was spent, 

It was his last command 

To bury him on Texas soil 

On the banks of the Rio Grande; 



io 4 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

And there the lonely traveler, 
When passing by his grave, 
Will shed a farewell tear 
O'er the bravest of the brave. 

And he'll go no more a-ranging, 
The savage to affright; 
He has heard his last war-whoop, 
And fought his last fight. 



MY LITTLE BROWN MULE 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written in 1912, at Santa Fe, concerning a pet trick mule 
I owned. 

His mammy's a burro, his daddy's a horse; 
Of course you'll all think it's a mighty queer cross. 
He's got brains in his eyes, he's nary a fool; 
As smart as a cricket, my little brown mule. 

He's always in mischief, he'll shy at a bug; 
When he sees a tin Lizzy he'll jump like a frog; 
He 's a voice like a trumpet, his coat 's always bright ; 
He's as gentle as can be if the cinch is n't tight. 

Just pull on that flank cinch a little too long 
And he won't do a thing till you are mounted and on ; 
Then farewell, relations, good-bye to the crowd, 
For you are off on a journey high up in the clouds. 

At night I don't stake him, just turn him foot-loose, 
And inside of two hours he's as full as a goose; 



NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM 105 

He's a great old camp-robber when the boys are in 

bed — 
Roots among the bake ovens for bacon and bread. 

He's a great one to wrangle on, he knows every 

horse, 
And if one of 'em's missing he's as mad as the 

boss; 
His sense just come natural, he was never in 

school, 
He's as wise as a parson, my little brown mule. 

Did you ask if I'd sell him — well, not on your 

life; 
The day we were married I gave him to the wife; 
And now two of my kids daily ride him to school ; 
Oh, no, money can't buy him, my little brown 

mule. 

NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM 

Accredited to Burr Sims. Heard it sung at a matador 
camp in the Panhandle of Texas. 

My country, 't is of thee, 
Land where things used to be 
So cheap we croak. 
Land of the mavericks, 
Land of the puncher's tricks, 
Thy culture-inroad picks 
The hide of this peeler-bloke. 

Some of the punchers swear 
That what they eat and wear 



106 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Takes all their calves. 
Others vow that they 
Eat only once a day 
Jerked beef and prairie hay, 
Washed down with tallow salves. 

These salty dogs but crave, 
To pull them out the grave, 
Just one Kiowa spur. 
They know they still will dine 
On flesh and beef the time; 
But give us, Lord divine, 
One "hen-fruit stir." 

Our father's land, with thee, 

Best trails of liberty, 

We chose to stop. 

We don't exactly like 

So soon to henceward hike, 

But, hell, we'll take the pike 

If this don't stop. 



NIGGER "'LASSES": THREE-BLOCK 
BRONCO-BUSTER 

By N. Howard Thorp 

He ca-su-ied * wid me, most ruinous, 

Till ma haid jest popped de ceilin', 

Ma stummick got tangled up wid my feet 

Till it done lost all f eelin' ; 

Ma old black nose commenced ter bleed, 

• Ca-su-ied, southern Texas word for bucking. 



NIGGER 'LASSES 107 

Everything went round; 

When I waked up in a hour er two, 

I v/as spraddled on de ground ! 

En I was jest a-hummin , , — 

Oh, dere ain't no horse what can't be rode, 
DaVs what de white folks say! 
En dere ain't a man what can't be throwed, 
OH, MAH! — 

I finds it jest dat ivay! 

Den dey cotched dat horse too quick to suit, 

En brought him back ter me, 

En I hobbled my stirrups em wrapped my rowels, 

En I hollered, "Turn him free!" 

Den he bent en he twisted, en he bowed en he 

moaned, 
En done der grand grape-vine ; 
I waked up a-straddle of er cactus bush, 
But dis song I had in mind, — 

Oh, dere ain't no horse what can't be rode, 
Dat's what de white folks say! 
En dere ainH a man what canH be throwed, 
OH, MAH! — 

I finds it jest dat way! 

Den I grabs dat bronc en I piles aboard, 

Says I, " Ole horse, good-bye ! 

I'se got yo' number sure dis time, 

I doan care what yer try ! " 

Bout den he gimme de ole sun-fish, 

Rail-fence, en do-se-do; 

En it broke my heart fer us ter part, 

But I had ter let him go — 



108 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Oh, dere ain't no horse what can't be rode, 
Dat's what de white folks say! 
En dere ain't a man what can't be throwed, 
OH, MAH! — 

I finds it jes t dat way! 

NIGHT-HERDING SONG 

This is part of an old song, slightly changed. I lost the 
other verses when one of my ranch buildings burned 
down at Palma, New Mexico, some years ago. 

Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round, 
You have wandered and tramped all over the ground ; 
Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow, 
And don't forever be on the go, — 
Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow. 

I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, 

and cross-herded, too, 
But to keep you together that's what I can't do; 
My horse is leg-weary and I'm awful tired, 
But if you get away I'm sure to get fired, — 
Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up. 

Oh, say, little dogies, when are you goin' to lay down 

And quit this forever siftin' around? 

My limbs are weary, my seat is sore ; 

Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've lai^ before, — 

Lay down, little dogies, lay down. 

Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down, 
Stretch away out on the big open ground; 
Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound 
That will all go away when the day rolls round, — 
Lay still, little dogies, lay still. 



THE OLD CHISHOLM TRAIL 109 



THE OLD CHISHOLM TRAIL 

The origin of this song is unknown. There are several 
thousand verses to it — the more whiskey the more 
verses. Every puncher knows a few more verses. Sung 
from the Canadian line to Mexico. 

Come along, boys, and listen to my tale, 

I '11 tell you of my trouble on the old Chisholm Trail. 

Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, 
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. 

I started up the trail October twenty-third, 
I started up the trail with the 2-U herd. 

Oh, a ten-dollar hoss and a forty-dollar saddle, — 
And I 'm goin' to punchin' Texas cattle. 

I woke up one mornin' afore daylight, 
And afore I sleep the moon shines bright. 

Old Ben Bolt was a blamed good boss, 

But he'd go to see the girls on a sore-backed hoss. 

Old Ben Bolt was a fine old man, 
And you'd know there was whiskey wherever he'd 
land. 



My hoss throwed me off at the creek called Mud, 
My hoss throwed me off round the 2-U herd. 

Last time I saw him he was goin' cross the level 
A-kickin' up his heels and a-runnin' like the devil. 



no SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

It's cloudy in the west, a-lookin' like rain, 

And my damned old slicker's in the wagon again. 

Crippled my hoss, I don't know how, 
Ropin' at the horns of a 2-U cow. 

We hit Caldwell and we hit her on the fly, 
We bedded down the cattle on the Jail close by. 

No chaps, no slicker, and it's pourin' down rain, 
And I swear, by God, I'll never night-herd again. 

Feet in the stirrups and seat in the saddle, 
I hung and rattled with them longhorn cattle. 

Last night I was on guard and the leader broke the 

ranks, 
I hit my horse down the shoulders and I spurred 

him in the flanks. 

The wind commenced to blow and the rain began to 

fall, 
Hit looked, by grab, like we was goin' to lose 'em 

all. 

I jumped in the saddle and grabbed holt the horn, 
Best blamed cow-puncher ever was born. 

I popped my foot in the stirrup and gave a little yell, 
The tail cattle broke and the leaders went to hell. 

I don't give a damn if they never do stop; 
I'll ride as long as an eight-day clock. 



THE OLD CHISHOLM TRAIL in 

Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn, 
Best damned cowboy ever was born. 

I herded and hollered and I done very well, 
Till the boss said, " Boys, just let 'em go to hell." 

Stray in the herd, and the boss said kill it, 
So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the 
skillet. 

We rounded 'em up and put 'em on the cars, 
And that was the last of the old Two Bars. 

Oh, it's bacon and beans 'most every day, — 
I'd as soon be eatin' prairie hay. 

I'm on my horse and I'm goin' at a run, 
I'm the quickest shootin' cowboy that ever pulled 
a gun. 

I went to the wagon to get my roll, 

To come back to Texas, dad-burn my soul. 

I went to the boss to draw my roll, 

He had it figgered out I was nine dollars in the hole. 

I'll sell my outfit just as soon as I can, 
I won't punch cattle for no damned man. 

Goin' back to town to draw my money, 
Goin' back home to see my honey. 

With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky, 
I '11 quit punchin' cows in the sweet by and by. 



ii2 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya, youpy ya, 
Coma ti yi youpy, youpy ya. 

THE OLD COWMAN 

By Scott Levitt, Great Falls, Montana 

Got song from Joel Thomas, but at the time I did not 
know author's name. 

When the sap comes up through the cottonwood 

roots, 
And the first birds light 'mongst the quaking asp 

shoots; 
When the last brown edge at the sprinkling snow 
Shows a crocus bloom and the cattle low 
To the smell of spring from the greening buttes; 
Then my winter of years feels a pulsing flood 
And a discontent is let loose in my blood; 
For the past comes up like a mist-robed sun, 
And the sap of old longings begins to run 
Till a thousand wishes burst into bud ! 
From out the past rides a care-free crew, 
Steady and reckless right wild, but true — 
Big Sag Bill and old Milk River Blake, 
Musselshell Jack and Pecos Jake, 
A-riding ahead of 'em two by two! 
Now the coyotes call to the round-up camp, 
And the night herd 's out where the grass grows 

damp; 
a The herders are singing a soothing tune, 
\ For the cows are restless beneath the moon, 
\^jid I hear 'em bawling and hear 'em stamp! 

VAnd, oh, what singing from out the night ! 
Not the voice nor the tune, but a something quite 



0L» DYNAMITE 113 

Filled with trust; and the milling cows 

Forget stampeding and start to browse, 

For the voice of the herder has set them right. 

Give me one more day of the old free land, 

Uncursed by a road or a barbed-wire strand; 

A horse to ride and the sight, as I pass 

Of a thousand horns rising out of the grass, 

And I'll push back my chair and lay down my 

hand! 
Let me ride, old-timer, ride into the west, 
Till I 'm lost in the sunset upon the crest — 
And with it draw down to whatever lies 
On the range that's hid till we top the rise; 
Where the round-up boss has staked out what's 

best. 
Old Milk River Blake and Big Sag Bill, 
And Jack and Jake, at the top o' the hill, 
Are waiting to ride like we used to ride 
At the round-up camp down the Great Divide, 
Till the boss of all herders sings, " Peace, be still.'* 

OL» DYNAMITE 
By Phil Le Noir 

The outlaw stands with blindfold eyes, 

His feet set wide apart; 
His coal-black hide gleams in the sun — 

Thar's killin' in his heart. 

A puncher squats upon his heels, 

His saddle at his side; 
He's sizin' up 01* Dynamite, 

That he is booked to ride. 



H4 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

The cowboy rises, lifts his saddle — 

A little tune he 's hummin' — 
Walks catlike all around the hoss — 

"Hold him, boys, I'm comin'." 

Now up above the outlaw's back 

He lifts the load of leather; 
Then care-ful-lee he lets it down, 

Like the droppin' of a feather. 

OP Dynamite he stands stock-still, 

Plumb like a gentled pony. 
A leap, a yell ! an' Buck 's all set — 

" On with the cer-e-mo-nee." 

The snubbers rip the blindfold off, 

The punchers yip and yell; 
Ol' Dynamite gives one grand snort, 

Then starts his little hell. 

He plunges forward on his feet, > 

His hind heels in the air; 
Then up and down he bucks and backs 

Like a loco rockin'-chair. 

But now he stops — he spins around — 

He bawls, he bites, he kicks ! 
He r'ars straight up into the air, 

Then down on two steel sticks. 

But look! "My Gawd!" The crowd screams out, 

"He's boltin' for the stand!" 
Then just as quick he jerks up short — 

An' thar's Buck a-stickin' grand. 



OLD GRAZIN' BEN 115 

Buck leaps to earth, lifts his hat, 
Bows to the whirl of cheers — 

Then turning slides his saddle off, 
An' quickly disappears. 

OLD GRAZIN' BEN 
By N. Howard Thorp 

In seventy-six, or thereabouts, when the Black Hills 

made the strike, 
En new camps sprung up like mushrooms in the 

canons overnight, 
'T was the twenty-mule team that made the trip 

from the Hills to Camp Supply, 
Or the big ox team with their flanks drawn lean 
When the water-holes went dry. 

Yer could see 'em for miles a-comm', 

As the alkali dust would rise, 

Each skinner a handkerchief around his head 

Ter kind 'er protect his eyes. 

With a " Get up ! Tobe, blank, blank, you buck, 

I'll skin yer alive, yer dub!" 

They 'd sweat and strain 'gainst collar and chain 

Through 'dobe, sand, and mud. 

These were the teams that kept at work 

The men who were diggin' the gold, 

Workin' at rocker and riffle 

In those placer camps of old; 

These were the men who made history, 

The men who supplied the fuel; 

Their bones lie scattered along the trail 

Side by side with the ox and the mule. 



n6 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Bull-whackers, en skinners, en swampers, 
The men who handled the teams, 
Bringing provisions over the plain, 
It 's befitting to me, it seems, 
That their deeds should be ever remembered 
'Mongst the best of the frontiersmen; 
So three cheers for one I remember well, 
Three cheers for Old Grazin' Ben. 



OLD HANK 
By N. Howard Thorp 

Driftm' along the rim-rock, old Camp-Robber 
and I, 

Out on a scoutin' trip, circlin 1 the flat lands 
dry, 

Cuttin' the sign of the cattle, watchin' which way 
they drift, 

Pullin' 'em out of the bog-holes, givin' the weak 
ones a lift, 

Throwin' 'em back on the Home Range, each day 
in a different place, 

In slickers en leggins of leather, through sand- 
storms that blister your face . . . 

Boss in the Ranch House rides easy — his days of 

worry are gone, 
For he made his pile in the old Trail days, the days 

of the old longhorn. 
Yep, I 'm only a worn-out old Puncher — though 

the Boss thinks a heap of me ! 
For I was with him on the Pecos, in the Raid of 

Seventy-Three! . . . 



OLD NORTH 117 



Then he married, en got him religion, en tells how 

you must n't do wrong, 
Kow a Brand is the cowman's protection — then 

he'll deal you a Gospel Song! 

But I'll tell you, Old Hank was the slickest, that 

ever laid line on a steer, 
Or burnt over a brand with a runnin'-iron, or worked 

on an old cow's ear ! 
'Course, friends, all this talk 's confidential, — I 

would n't want Old Hank to see 
That I have n't changed my damned religion, since 

the Trail Herd of Seventy-Three! 



"OLD NORTH" 
By N. Howard Thorp 

When the Mormons drifted southward, 
He was one of a ten-span team, 
The biggest young ox them Utah 
Bull-whackers hed ever seen. 

Tawny en bony en holler, 

At three years full six feet tall, 

En he 'd break the chain whenever he 'd 

strain 
En a heavy wagon stall. 

Out of a team of twenty, 
Which died in the White Sands Pass, 
He alone pulled through en made his way 
To the springs of San Nicolas. 



n8 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Twenty Mormon women, 
In all, fifty Mormon souls, 
Died from the lack of water, 
Paying the desert toll. 

The ranchmen, on learning the story, 
How every one had died, 
Let the big steer have his freedom 
Through the Organ Valley wide. 

In the winter he'd drift down southward 
To the Franklin Mountains warm, 
In the summer you'd find him grazin 1 
On the top of El Torro 's horn. 

No one ever molests him, 

A monument he stands 

To those pioneers in search of homes, 

That gallant Mormon band. 

This was the story as told me 

By a ranchman's little lass, 

Of " North," the steer who roams the plains, 

And of those in the White Sands Pass. 

OLD PAINT 

Heard this sung by a puncher who had been on a spree 
in Pecos City. He had taken a job temporarily as sheep- 
rustler for an outfit in Independence Draw, down the river, 
and was ashamed of the job. I wonH mention his name. 

Refrain: 

Good-bye, Old Paint, /'m a-leauin y Cheyenne, 

Good-bye, Old Paint, /'m a-leavin 1 Cheyenne. 



OLD PAINT 119 



My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand ; 
Good-bye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. 

I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, I'm off for Montan'; 
Good-bye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. 

I'm a-ridin' Old Paint, I'm a-leadin' Old Fan; 
Good-bye, Old Paint, I 'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. 

With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand; 
Good-bye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. 

Old Paint's a good pony, he paces when he can; 
Good-bye, little Annie, I 'm off for Cheyenne. 

Oh hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay, 
And seat yourself by me so long as you stay. 

My horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay; 
My wagon is loaded and rolling away. 

My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand ; 
Good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand. 

Good-bye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin* Cheyenne, 
Good-bye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne. 

OLD PAINT 
By N. Howard Thorp 

Every time I see an old paint horse, I think of you, 

Old paint horse of mine that used to be, 

Old pal 0' mine that was, the best horse of all, 

because — 
That's why, old horse, at last I set you free! 



120 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

I've bought 'em by the thousand, I've owned 'em 

everywhere — 
There's one stands out among 'em all alone; 
Paint-marked everywhere, tail a little short o* 

hair, 
Old horse, you never failed to bring me home ! 

'Member when they stole you from Pass City, 
En locked you up inside the Juarez jail? 
Said that you had eaten up an entire crop of wheat, 
En I had to rustle round en get your bail? 

En I got you cross the river en matched you in a 

race, 
En we bet the last red dollar we could scrape? — 
En how you bit old Rocking Chair, the horse you 

run against, 
En made him turn his head en lose the race? 

We was both young en foolish in them green days 

long ago, 
I don't believe in telling stories out of school! — 
'Member when we roped the pianner en jerked her 

out the door? 
Hush up! Old Paint! you're talkin' like a fool! 

Well, old horse, you're buried, en your troubles, 

they are done, 
But I often sit en think of what we did, 
En recall the many scrapes we had, en used to think 

it fun, 
Es we rode along the Rio Grande . . . 

Good-bye, old Kid ! 



OLD-TIME COWBOY 121 



OLD-TIME COWBOY 

Understand this was written by an old cow-puncher who 
claims he was dragging his rope along and some one else's 
calf got tangled up in it, and he landed in the Huntsville 
Pen. His name was Rogers. I first heard it sung by Tom 
Beasley, at Hueco Tanks, Texas. 

Come,allyoumelancholyfolks,whereveryoumaybe, 
I '11 sing you about the cowboy whose life is light 

and free; 
He roams about the prairie, and at night when he 

lies down, 
His heart is as gay as the flowers in May in his bed 

upon the ground. 

They 're a little bit rough, I must confess, the must 

of them at least; 
But if you do not hunt a quarrel, you can live with 

them in peace ; 
For if you do, you're sure to rue the day you joined 

their band. 
They will follow you up and shoot it out with you, 

just man to man. 

Did you ever go to a cowboy whenever hungry and dry, 
Asking for a dollar and have him you deny? 
He'll just pull out his pocket-book and hand you 

a note, — 
They are the fellows to help you whenever you are 

broke. 

Go to their ranches and stay a while — they never 

ask a cent; 
And when they go to town their money is freely spent. 



122 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

They walk straight up and take a drink, paying for 

every one, 
And they never ask your pardon for anything they 've 

done. 

When they go to their dances, some dance while 

others pat; 
They ride their bucking broncos and wear their 

broad-brimmed hats; 
With their California saddles and their pants stuck 

in their boots, 
You can hear their spurs a- jingling and perhaps 

some of them shoots. 

Come, all soft-hearted tenderfeet, if you want to 

have some fun, 
Go live among the cowboys, they '11 show you how 

it's done; 
They'll treat you like a prince, my boys, about them 

there's nothing mean; 
But don't try to give them too much advice, for all 

of them ain't green. 

"OLD TROUBLE" A L RANCH COLORED 
COOK 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Morn 's breakin' over de ole Ranch before de moon's 

gone way, 
Dat's a sign er early frostin' in de fall; 
Two Roosters on de water-trough 'fore de break er 

day, — 
Dat's gwine ter make some trouble fer us all. 



ON THE DODGE 123 

I see de fethers in ole turkey's tail, all turned en 

pointin' west, 
En I see a crippled dog down in de lane; 
De sittin' hens 'bout twelve o'clock has aH done 

quit de nests, — 
Dey's gwine ter be some trouble soon again. 

De bees is buzzin' awful loud down in de gums ter- 

day; 
Dat ole noun' dog ain't never moved sense noon; 
Believe me, Marster Robert, de signs es pointin' 

right, 
Dat der's gwine ter be some trouble mighty soon. 

I see dat front door open when der warn't no one 

about, 
Der smoke blow back from de chimbley in de room, 
En I sees dat rockin'-chair commence ter rock 

alone — 
Yes, dere's gwine ter be some trouble mighty soon. 

ON THE DODGE 

By N. Howard Thorp 

"Well, old horse, you've brought me 'cross the line, 
There's a sheriff's posse ridin' close behind, 

But they'll not cross the Boca Grande, 

The Ru-ra-les are too handy, 
And here's one Gringo that they'll never find. 

Chorus 
I don't see why they can't leave me alone, 
I'd love to be back in my hapj>y home! 



124 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Every time I steal a horse, 
Some one raises hell, of course, 
Seems /'m always driftin' west from San Antonel 

Last week I found a stake-pin I had lost, 

Jest an iron one — 'bout a dollar it had cost, — 

On it was tied a rope, 

En it almost got my goat, 
When I found the other end tied to a horse ! 

I'm as innocent as any man can be, 
But I'm afraid the Judge will not agree, 

As there is n't any use 

In dishin' up a poor excuse, 
I might as well jest saddle up and flee! 



THE OVERLAND STAGE 
By N. Howard Thorp 

They don't drive the Overland Stage no more 

Like they used to when I was young, 

With four half-broke broncs out in the lead, 

En two in the wagon tongue. 

With old Dick Huber up on the box, 

The messenger by his side, 

They'd drive like hell when they heard the yell 

Of Apaches on the ride, j 

The thorough-braces swinging to and fro, 
Es we'd hit the chuck-holes deep, 
The clatter of chains 'gainst single trees 
On the down grade rough and steep ; 



THE OVERLAND STAGE 125 

Es we'd take the hill across the draw, 
You'd hear the buckskin pop — 
And Huber pullin' on the lines 
Es the team would near the top. 

What to do in the case of a hold-up 

Was all the talk one day. 

Jim Black said he'd fork over, 

If let go on his way; 

Tom Moore 'lowed he'd come a-shootin' 

If they tried that game on him, 

For he'd been held up once before 

On the road to Silver Inn. 

The woman passenger we'd picked up, 

In the valley at early dawn 

Had never moved or spoke a word 

Till we'd passed through Hollow Horn. 

En I could see quite quick en pronto 

That she was bridle-wise; 

Though made up of smiles and dimples, 

She had the Devil in her eyes. 

For her shawl was worn Spanish-wise, 

En her eyes alone shone bright, 

En seemed to notice yer every move 

Es they'd shift from left to right. 

En her little slim girlish figure 

Seemed pitifully alone, 

En made one feel you should always protect 

The young away from home. 



126 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

'Bout then the coach give an awful lurch, 

Es we struck the river sand, 

When I corne to, there stood the girl 

With a Winchester in her hand; 

"You gents pile out, yer hands hold high!" 

Was the order that she gave, 

"Just one false play er a crooked move, 

En you'll fill an early grave!" 

Well, she cleaned us out to the last red cent, 

En the messenger, too, er course, 

En she made old Huber cut loose the team 

En saddle her up a horse. 

Es she rode away, we heard her say, 

In a voice with a musical note, 

"Boys, times have changed on the open range, 

Since the women have got the vote!" 



THE PECOS RIVER QUEEN 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written on Lower Pecos, New Mexico, June, 1901, after 
Roy Bean had told me of this fact concerning Patty. 
Copyrighted in my book published in 1908. 

Where the Pecos River winds and turns in its jour- 
ney to the sea, 

From its white walls of sand and rock striving ever 
to be free, 

Near the highest railroad bridge that all these mod- 
ern times have seen 

Dwells fair young Patty Moorhead, the Pecos River 
Queen. 



PECOS TOM 127 



She's known by all the cowboys on the Pecos River 
wide ; 

They know full well that she can shoot, that she can 
rope and ride ; 

She goes to every round-up, every cow- work with- 
out fail, 

Looking out for all her cattle branded "walking 
hog on rail. ,, 

She made her start in cattle, yes, made it with her 

rope; 
Can tie down e'ry maverick 'fore it can strike a 

lope; 
She can rope and tie and brand it as quick as any 

man; 
She's voted by all cowboys an Ai top cow-hand. 

Across the Comstock railroad bridge, the highest in 

the West, 
Patty rode her horse one day a lover's heart to 

test; 
For he told her he would gladly risk all dangers 

for her sake, 
But the puncher would n't follow, so she 's still 

without a mate. 

PECOS TOM 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Where the old Fort Sumner Barracks look down on 

the Pecos wide, 
In a dugout near the crossin' we was a-sittin' side 

by side; 



128 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Old Pecos Tom, the cowman, en your humble 

servant, me, 
Was a-swappin' cow-camp stories in the fall of 

eighty-three. 
When my gaze it sort er fastened on a gun slung on 

his side, 
Worth some fifteen thousand dollars — say, maybe 

you think I've lied? 
But the handle was plumb covered with diamonds 

of all size, 
Ell she'd glitter, en she'd glisten, es she hung down 

from his side. 

You could have bought his whole darned outfit fer 

a yearlin' steer er two, 
Hat, boots, overalls, en chaps — there was nothin' 

that was new; 
Lived down in a dugout, on jest sour-dough bread 

en beef, 
En was just about as happy es a Choctaw Indian chief. 

Figured he had ten thousand cattle, en the whole 
wide range was his, 

En if he wanted a good six-shooter it was no one 
else's biz; 

So when he shipped with er train er steers to Chi- 
cago late one fall, 

En was strollin' on up State Street, he thought he'd 
make a call 

On the biggest jewelry outfit that kept gaudy 

things to wear, 
But when he asked fer a six-shooter the Jew clerk 

began to stare; 



A PRAIRIE SONG 129 

" Yes, we 've got one that was ordered for a bloomin' 

English lord, 
But I reckon from your outfit it's a gun you can't 

afford. *— 

" It will cost you fifteen thousand — " Says Old Tom t 
" Just give her here, 

You counter-jumpin' gorriff!" — en he grabbed 
him by the ear, 

En he peeled off fifteen thousand to the Hebrew 
standin' there, 

Sayin', " Don't judge Western cowmen by the out- 
fits that they wear ! " 



A PRAIRIE SONG 

/ heard this sung by a cow-girl at Cheyenne Round-up — 
a Miss Windsor. 

Oh, music springs under the galloping hoofs, 

Out on the plains; 
Where mile after mile drops behind with a smile, 
And to-morrow seems always to tempt and be- 
guile, — 

Out on the plains. 

Oh, where are the traces of yesterday's ride? 

There to the north; 
Where alfalfa and sage sigh themselves into 

sleep, 
Where the buttes loom up suddenly, startling and 
steep, — 

There to the north. 



130 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Oh, rest not my pony, there's youth in my heart, 

Out on the plains ; 
And the wind sings a wild song to rob me of care, 
And there's room here to live and to love and to 
dare, — 

Out on the plains. 

THE PROSPECTOR 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written at the Slash S W Ranch, on the door of the old 
ranch house y in the San Andreas Mountains. 

Twelve years have I lived in this desolate place, 
Far from all habitation — not even a face 
Have I seen, save Apaches, those unwelcome guests, 
Pass me by as I work with my pick in the breast. 

Am I one of the millions whose brain-string has 
snapped, 

Who sees visions of gold in those canyons un- 
mapped, 

Unexplored, unprospected, that lay just ahead, 

Near the Arc of the Bow where so many lie dead? 

Like all miners I've visions, which may some day 

come true, 
Of wfcere I would go and what I would do — 
If I'd but once find the vein which carries the ore, 
My days of hard work would forever be o'er. 

There's a frenzy of fury that boils in one's veins — 
Will it pay for the hardships, will it pay for my pains? 
'T is a distorted finger that beckons, it seems, 
To the land of illusions, the place of my dreams. 



PUNCHIN' DOUGH 131 

PUNCHIN' DOUGH 
By Henry Herbert Knibbs 

Come, all you young waddies, I'll sing you a song: 
Stand back from the wagon — stay where you be- 
long; 
I've heard you observin' I'm fussy and slow, 
While you're punchin' cattle and I'm punchin' 
dough. 

Now I reckon your stomach would grow to your back, 
If it wa'n't for the cook that keeps fillin.' fche slack: 
With the beans in the box and the pork in the tub, 
I'm a wonderin', now, who would fill you with 
grub? 

You think you're right handy with gun and with 

rope, 
But I 've noticed you 're bashful when usin' the soap : 
When you're rollin' your Bull for your brown 

cigarette, 
I been rollin' dough for the biscuits you et. 

When you're cuttin' stock, then I'm cuttin' steak: 
Y/hen you're wranglin' horses, I'm wranglin' cake : 
When you're hazin' the dogies and battin' your 

eyes, 
I'm hazin' dried apples that aim to be pies. 

You brag about shootin' up windows and lights, 
But try shooting biscuits for twelve appetites: 
When you crawl from your roll and the ground it is 

froze, 
Then who biles the coffee that thaws out your nose? 



132 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

In the old days the punchers took just what they 

got: 
It was sowbelly, beans, and the old coffee-pot; 
But now you come howlin' for pie and for cake, 
Then you cuss at the cook for a good bellyache. 

You say that I'm old, with my feet on the skids; 
Well, I'm tellin' you now that you're no thin' but 

kids: 
If you reckon your mounts are some snaky and 

raw, 
Just try ridin' herd on a stove that won't draw. 

When you look at my apron, you're readin' my 

brand, 
Four X, which is sign for the best in the land; 
On bottle or sack it sure stands for good luck, 
So — line up, you waddies, and wrangle your chuck. 

No use of your snortin' and fightin' your head: 
If you like it with chile, just eat what I said; 
For I aim to be boss of this end of the show, 
While you're punchin' cattle and I'm punchin' 
dough. 



THE RAILROAD CORRAL 

Author unknown. Mailed to me by a friend at Colorado 
City, Texas. 

Oh, we're up in the morning ere breaking of the 

day, 
The chuck-wagon's busy, the flapjacks in play; 



THE RAILROAD CORRAL 133 

The herd is astir o'er hillside and vale, 

With the night riders rounding them into the trail. 

Oh, come take up your cinches, come shake out 

your reins ; 
Come wake your old bronco and break for the 

plains; 
Come roust out your steers from the long chaparral, 
For the outfit is off to the railroad corral. 

The sun circles upward ; the steers as they plod 
Are pounding to powder the hot prairie sod; 
And it seems, as the dust makes you dizzy and sick, 
That we'll never reach noon and the cool shady 

creek. 
But tie up your kerchief and ply up your nag; 
Come dry up your grumbles and try not to lag; 
Come with your steers from the long chaparral, 
For we 're far on the road to the railroad corral. 

The afternoon shadows are starting to lean, 
When the chuck-wagon sticks in the marshy ravine ; 
The herd scatters farther than vision can look, 
For you can bet all true punchers will help out the 

cook. 
Come shake out your rawhide and snake it up fair; 
Come break your old bronco to take in his share; 
Come from your steers in the long chaparral, 
For 't is all in the drive to the railroad corral. 

But the longest of days must reach evening at last, 
The hills all climbed, the creeks all past; 
The tired herd droops in the yellowing light; 
Let them loaf if they will, for the railroad 's in sight. 



134 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

So flap up your holster and snap up your belt, 
And strap up your saddle whose lap you have felt; 
Good-bye to the steers from long chaparral, 
For there's a town that's a trunk by the railroad 
corral. 

THE RAMBLING COWBOY 

Author supposed to have been K. Tolliver. I first heard 
it at Van Horn, Texas. 

There was a rich old rancher who lived in the coun- 
try by; 

He had a lovely daughter on whom I cast my eye ; 

She was pretty, tall, and handsome, both neat and 
very fair; 

There's no other girl in the country with her I 
could compare. 

I asked her if she would be willing for me to cross 

the plains; 
She said she would be truthful until I returned 

again; 
She said she would be faithful until death did prove 

unkind, 
So we kissed, shook hands, and parted, and I left 

my girl behind. 

I left the state of Texas, for Arizona I was bound; 
I landed in Tombstone City, I viewed the place all 

round. 
Money and work were plentiful, and the cowboys 

they v/ere kind, 
But the only thought of my heart was the girl I left 

behind. 



SAM BASS 135 



One day, as I was riding across the public square, 
The mail-coach came in and I met the driver there ; 
He handed me a letter which gave me to understand 
That the girl I left in Texas had married another 
man. 

I turned myself all roundabout, not knowing what 

to do, 
But I read on down some further and it proved the 

words were true. 
Hard work I have laid over, it's gambling I have 

designed. 
I'll ramble this wide world over for the girl I left 

behind. 

Come, all you reckless and rambling boys, who 

have listened to this song, 
If it has n't done you any good, it has n't done you 

any wrong; 
But when you court a pretty girl, just marry her 

while you can, 
For if you go across the plains she'll marry another 

man. 

SAM BASS 

By John Denton, Gainsville, Texas, 1879 

This is the most authentic report on authorship I have re- 
ceived. I first heard the song sung in Sidney, Nebraska, 
at a dance hall, in 1888. 

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native 

home, 
And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to 

roam. 



136 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Sam first came out to Texas a cowboy for to be, — 
A kinder-hearted fellow you seldom ever see. 

Sam used to deal in race-stock, one called the 

Denton mare; 
He matched her in scrub races and took her to the 

fair. 
Sam used to coin the money, and spent it just as 

free; 
He always drank good whiskey wherever he might 

be. 

Sam left the Collins ranch, in the merry month of 

May, 
With a herd of Texas cattle the Black Hills for to 

see; 
Sold out in Custer City, and then got on a spree, — 
A harder set of cowboys you seldom ever see. 

On their way back to Texas they robbed the U.P. 

train, 
And then split up in couples and started out again; 
Joe Collins and his partner were overtaken soon, 
With all their hard-earned money they had to meet 

their doom. 

Sam made it back to Texas, all right up with care ; 
Rode into town of Denton with all his friends to 

share. 
Sam's life was short in Texas; three robberies did 

he do; 
He robbed all the passenger mail and express cars 

too. 



SAM BASS 137 



Sam had four companions — four bold and daring 

lads — 
They were Richardson, Jackson, Joe Collins, and 

Old Dad; 
Four more bold and daring cowboys the Rangers 

never knew, 
They whipped the Texas Rangers and ran the boys 

in blue. 

Sam and another companion, called Arkansas for 

short, 
Was shot by a Texas Ranger by the name of 

Thomas Floyd; 
Oh, Tom is a big six-footer and thinks he 's mighty 

fly, 

But I can tell you his racket, — he's a deadbeat on 
the sly. 

Jim Murphy was arrested and then released on bail; 
He jumped his bond at Tyler and then took the 

train for Terrell; 
But Mayor Jones had posted Jim and that was all a 

stall, 
'T was only a plan to capture Sam before the coming 

fall. 

Sam met his fate at Round Rock, July the twenty- 
first; 

They pierced poor Sam with rifle balls and emptied 
out his purse. 

Poor Sam he is a corpse and six foot under clay, 

And Jackson in the bushes trying to get away. 



138 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Jim had borrowed Sam's good gold and did n't want 

to pay, 
The only shot he saw was to give poor Sam away. 
He sold out Sam and Barnes and left their friends 

to mourn, — 
Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel 

blows his horn. 

And so he sold out Sam and Barnes and left their 

friends to mourn, — 
Oh, what a scorching Jim will get when Gabriel 

blows his horn. 
Perhaps he 's got to heaven, there's none of us can 

say, 
But if I am right in my surmise he's gone the other 

way. 

SKY-HIGH 
By N. Howard Thorp 

Tne scream of the outlaw split the air w 
As we tied him hard and fast 
To the snubbing-post in the horse corral, 
For his turn had come at last 

To learn the feel of spurs of steel 
As they graze along each side, — 
En Bugger pulled up his chaps a hole, 
For he was the next to ride. 

We knew he'd strike, we knew he'd bite, 
We knew he'd kick and rear, 
So we grabbed his ears en held his head, 
Till Bugger got up near. 



SKY-HIGH 139 



He stepped into the saddle 

En hollered — "Let 'im go!" 

We jerked the blinder from his eyes, 

Then stopped to watch the show. 

You've all heard of pitchin' horses 
From Steamboat down the line, 
Old Barometer, en Step Fast, 
En a mare they called Divine. 

Old Prickly Pear, en Pizen, 
Lop Ears, en Stingaree, — 
They all wuz Shetland ponies 
'Side this horse from Santa Fe. 

We asked Red in tones solicitous 
If he had made his will, 
Had he any girl in Texas 
Who really loved him still? 

Was there any parting message 
That he would like to send, 
To some one in his old, old home 
Who still might be his friend? 

Who was his pet undertaker? 
What parson should we get? 
Would he have flowers on his coffin? 
I can hear old Bugger yet; 

" Mosey, you four-flush punchers, 
Don't weep no tears for me, 



I'm a ridin' kid from Texas, 
From the old 3 Bar C ! 



140 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

" Go up, you old Cloud-Getter, 
I can see the Pearly Gate, 
We 're a-doin' the Grand Ascension, 
Loopin' the loops, as sure as fate ; 

4i If I'm a judge of horses, 
You're not one, two, three, 
With the gentle stock we used to ride 
Attheold3-C!» 

He whipped old Sky-High till he quit, 
He roweled him up and down; 
Old Sky-High had a plenty, 
He could hardly turn around. 

En we heard old Bugger hummin', 
Es he turned the outlaw free, 
"I'm a ridin' kid from Texas, 
From the old 3-C r M 



A SONG OF THE RANGE 

By James Barton Adams 
Sent me by Miss Nell Benson 

The bawl of a steer to a cowboy's ear is music of 

sweetest strain, 
And the yelling notes of the gray coyotes to him are 

a glad refrain; 
The rapid beat of his bronco's feet on the sod as he 

speeds along 
Keeps 'livening time to the ringing rhyme of his 

rollicking cowboy song. 



A SONG OF THE RANGE 141 

His eyes are bright and his heart is light as the 

smoke of his cigarette, 
There's never a care for his soul to bear, no 

troubles to make him fret; 
For a kingly crown in the noisy town his saddle he 

would not change — 
No life so free as the life we see 'way out on the 

cattle range. 

Hi-lo! Hi-lay! 

To the range away, 
On the deck of a bronc of steel, 

With a careless flirt 

Of a rawhide quirt 
And a dig of the roweled heel. 

The winds may howl, 

And the thunder growl, 
Or the breeze may softly moan; 
\ The ridefs life 

Is the life for me, 
The saddle a kingly throne. 

At the long day's close he his bronco throws with 

the bunch in the hoss corral, 
And a light he spies in the bright blue eyes of his 

welcoming rancher gal; 
' T is a light that tells of the love that dwells in the 

soul of his little dear, 
And a kiss he slips to her waiting lips when no one 

is watching near. 
His glad thoughts stray to the coming day when 

away to the town they'll ride, 
And the nuptial brand by the parson's hand will be 

placed on his bonnie bride, 



142 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

And they '11 gallop back to the old home shack in the 

life that is new and strange — 
The rider bold and the girl of gold, the queen of the 

cattle range. 

Hi-lo! Hi-lay! 

For the work is play 
When love's in the cowboy's eyes, 

When his heart is light 

As the clouds of white 
That swim in the summer skies; 

And his jolly song 

Speeds the hours along 
As he thinks of the little gal 

With the golden hair 

Who'll be waiting there 
At the gate of the home corral. 

SPECKLES 
By N. Howard Thorp 

This song was written in 1906 at Palma, New Mexico, 
my old ranch. I gave the contract to print my first little 
book, entitled "Songs of the Cowboys," to Mr. P. A. 
Speckman, News Print Shop, Estancia, New Mexico, who 
printed it in 1908. 

He was little en peaked en thin, en narry a no- 
account horse — 

Least that's the way you'd describe him in case 
that the beast had been lost — 

But for single and double cussedness en double 
center-fired sin 

The horse never come out o* Texas that was half- 
way knee-high to him. 



SPECKLES 143 

The first time that ever I saw him was nineteen 

year ago last spring. 
*T was the year we had grasshoppers, that come en 

et up everything, 
That a feller rode up here one evening en wanted to 

pen overnight 
A small bunch of horses, he said, en I told him I 

guessed 't was all right. 

Well, the feller was busted, the horses was thin, 
en the grass around here kind o' good, 

En he said if I 'd let him hold here a few days, he'd 
settle with me when he could. 

So I told him all right, turn them loose down the 
draw, that the latchstring was always un- 
tied; 

He was welcome to stop a few days if he liked en 
rest from his long, weary ride. 

Well, the cuss stay'd around for two or three weeks 

till at last he decided to go, 
And that horse over yonder being too poor to move 

he gimme — the cuss had no dough; 
Well, at first the darn brute was as wild as a deer, 

en would snort when he came to the branch, 
En it took two cow-punchers, on good horses, too, 

to handle him here at the ranch. 

Well, winter come on and the range it got hard, anc*. 

my mustang commenced to get thin, 
So I fed him along and rode him around some and 

found out old Speckles was game; 
For that was what the other cuss called him, just 

Speckles, no more or no less: 



144 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

His color, could n't describe it, something like a 
paint-shop in distress. 

Them was Indian times, young feller, that I'm 

a-telling about, 
And oft's the time I've seen the red men fight and 

put the boys in blue to rout. 
A good horse in them days, young feller, would 

often save your life — 
One that in any race could hold the pace when the 

red-skin bands were rife. 

I was a-settin' one night at sunset, jest inside that 

hall, 
En Mollie hed gone to the milk-pen as she heard 

the milk cows bawl, 
When out o' brush en thicket, ridin' towards me 

out o' the west, 
Comes Antelope John, his horse on the run, en 

ridin' like one possessed. 

"Apaches are out!" he shouted; "for God's sake, 

hurry and go ! 
They're close behind, comin' like the wind; catch 

your horse and come on, Joe!" 
Old Speckles was saddled, I grabbed my gun, 

picked Mollie up as I passed; 
With the grit of her kind she hung on behind and 

never a question asked. 

Down through canons deep, over mesas steep, Old 

Speckles never failed; 
In his heart of steel he seemed to feel the red-skins 

on our trail; 



TEN THOUSAND TEXAS RANGERS 145 

On, ever onward, towards Fort Craig he sped the 
whole night through; 

Though handicapped by a double load, he out- 
stripped the red-skins too. ' 

Never will I forget that ride, en how at first day- 
break 

We galloped out of the chaparral en entered the old 
fort gate. 

TEN THOUSAND TEXAS RANGERS 

By Alice Corbin 

Written in March, 1917, at the time when Germany pro- 
posed to Mexico that they retake the "lost provinces " of 
Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. 

Ten thousand Texas Rangers are laughin' fit to 

kill 
At the joke of the German Kaiser, an* his fierce, 

imperious will — 
For he sez, sez he, to the Mexican boob, hidin' 

behind his beard, 
" Old Uncle Sam is an easy mark, or so I've always 

heerd — 

" Go up and take his cattle, and take a state or 

two, — 
Texas, New Mexico, Arizone — don't stop before 

you 're through ; 
For we shall make war together, and together make 

peace/' he said, 
Now ain't it a joke — so easy-like — as easy as 

makin' bread! 



146 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

m 

Now if he had wanted a gun-man, he could n't 

have chose a worse, 
For Pancho Villa has got more knack in fixin' a man 

for the hearse, 
And if he had thought that a gun-man could swipe 

that piece of earth, 
He should 'a' remembered we got the trick of 

handlin' a gun from birth I 

Ten thousand Texas Rangers are shakin' with 
wicked glee 

At the joke of the German Kaiser in his fierce per- 
plexity ; 

They are bustin' their buttins with laughing they 
are laughin' fit to kill — 

"By Gawd," sez they, " but that's one on him, by 
Gawd, but that's one on Bill!" 



THE TENDERFOOT 

By Yank Hitson, Denver, Colorado, 1889 

/ got the song from old Battle Axe, whom lots of old 
punchers remember, at Phoenix, Arizona, 1899. 

I thought one spring, just for fun, 
I'd see how cow-punching was done; 
And when the round-ups had begun 
I tackled the cattle-king. 
Says he, " My foreman is in town, 
He's at the plaza, his name is Brown; 
If you'll see him he'll take you down." 
Says I, "That's just the thing." 



THE TENDERFOOT 147 

m 

We started for the ranch next day ; 
Brown augured me most all the way. 
He said that cow-punching was child play, 
That it was no work at all, — 
That all you had to do was ride, 
'T was only drifting with the tide ; 
Oh, how that old cow-puncher lied — 
He certainly had his gall. 

He pat me in charge of a cavyard, 

And told me not to work too hard, 

That all I had to do was guard 

The horses from getting away; 

I had one hundred and sixty head, 

I sometimes wished that I was dead; 

When one got away, Brown's head turned red, 

And there was hell to pay. 

Straight to the bushes they would take, 
As if they were running for a stake, — 
I've often wished their neek they 'd break, 
But they would never fall. 
Sometimes I could not head them at all, 
Sometimes my horse would catch a fall, 
And I'd shoot on like a cannon ball 
Till the earth came in my way. 

They saddled me up an old gray hack 

With two set-fasts on his back; 

They padded him down with a gunny sack 

And used my bedding all. 

When I got on he quit the ground, 

Went up in the air and turned around, 

And I came down and hit the ground, — 

It was an awful fall. 



148 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

They picked me up and carried me in 

And rubbed me down with an old stake-pin. 

" That's the way they all begin; 

You're doing well," says Brown. 

** And in the morning, if you don't die, 

I'll give you another horse to try." 

" Oh, say, can't I walk?" says I. 

Says he, " Yes — back to town." 

I've traveled up and I've traveled down, 
I've traveled this country round and round, 
I've lived in city and I've lived in town, 
But I've got this much to say: 
Before you try cow-punching, kiss your wife, 
Take a heavy insurance on your life, 
Then cut your throat with a barlow knife, — 
For it 's easier done that way. 



THE TEXAS COWBOY 

An old song, credited to Al Pease of Round Rock, Texas. 
I first heard it sung by J. Latham at La Luz, New Mexico. 

Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, 
Far away from home ; 
If ever I get back to Texas 
I never more will roam. 



Montana is too cold for me 
And the winters are too long; 
Before the round-ups do begin, 
Our money is all gone. 



THE TEXAS COWBOY 149 

Take this old hen-skin bedding, 
Too thin to keep me warm; 
I nearly freeze to death, my boys, 
Whenever there's a storm. 

And take this old " tarpoleon" 
Too thin to shield my frame — 
I got it down in New Mexico 
A-dealin' a Monte game. 

Now to win these fancy leggins 
I '11 have enough to do ; 
They cost me twenty dollars 
The day that they were new. 

I have an outfit on the Musselshell, 
But that I'll never see, 
Unless I get sent to represent 
The circle or D.T. 

I've worked up in Nebraska 
Where the grass grows ten feet high, 
And the cattle are such rustlers 
That they seldom ever die; 

I've worked up in the sand hills, 
And down upon the Platte, 
Where the cowboys are good fellows 
And the cattle always fat; 

I 've traveled lots of country, — 
Nebraska's hills of sand, 
Down through the Indian Nation, 
And up the Rio Grande; — 



150 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

But the Bad lands of Montana 
Are the worst I've ever seen, 
The cowboys are all tenderfeet, 
And the dogies are all lean. 

If you want to see some bad lands, 
Go over on the Dry; 
You will bog down in the coulees 
Where the mountains reach the sky. 

A tenderfoot to lead you 
Who never knows the way; 
You are playing in the best of luck 
If you eat more than once a day. 

Your grub is bread and bacon, 
And coffee black as ink; 
The water so full of alkali 
It is hardly fit to drink. 

They will wake you in the morning, 
Before the break of day, 
And send you on a circle 
A hundred miles away. 

All along the Yellowstone 
'T is cold the year around; 
You will surely get consumption 
By sleeping on the ground. 

Work in Montana 
Is six months in the year; 1 
When all your bills are settled, 
There is nothing left for beer. 



THANKSGIVING ON THE RANCH 151 

Work down in Texas 

Is all the year around; 

You will never get consumption 

By sleeping on the ground. 

Come, all you Texas cowboys, 
And warning take from me, 
And do not go to Montana 
To spend your money free. 

But stay at home in Texas, 
Where work lasts the year around ; 
And you will never catch consumption 
By sleeping on the ground. 

THANKSGIVING ON THE RANCH 
By James Barton Adams, Denver 

We was settin' 'round the ranch house on the last 

Thanksgivin' Day, 
Tellin' yarns an' swappin' fables fer to pass the 

time away ; 
Fer the owner was religious an* had made it mani- 
fest 
That there would n't be no ridin' on a day o' joyful 

rest; 
*An' we got in a discussion an' a heap o' talk was 

spent 
Pro an' con an' vivy vocy what Thanksgivin' reely 

meant ; 
An' I'll bet a workin' saddle 'gainst a pa'r o' hoss's 

shoes 
That there never was another sich a scatterin' o' 

views. 



152 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Texas Tony thought 'twas taught him when he 

went to Sunday school, 
In the days when he was swimmin , in the Baptis' 

pious pool, 
That it was a celebration that was started on the 

dock 
When the Scribes an' Pharisees was landed onto 

Plymouth Rock. 
Bronco Billy said he reckoned Tex had got his 

stories mixed, 
That his mem'ry wheels had run too long without 

a-bein' fixed; 
That the day, if he remembered, was a day o* 

jubilee 
In remembrance of Abe Lincoln settm' all the nig- 
gers free. 

Brocky Jim, from Arizony, begged to differ, sayin* 

he 
In his younger days had wasted lots o' time on his- 
tory; 
An* the day was celebrated in thanksgivin* fer 

the change 
When the Revolution fellers drifted off King 

George's range. 
Lengthy Jones an' Watt McGovern an' the Rio 

Grandy Kid 
Coincided in believing as the present writer 

did, 
It was jest a yearly epock to remind us o' the 

day 
When Columbus happened on us in a onexpected 

way. 



THREE-BLOCK TOM 153 

Uncle Dick, the oV hoss 'rangier, sot an* smoked 

his pipe till all 
O' the fellers with the question then at stake had 

tuk a fall, 
An* when asked fer his opinion o* the matter said 

that he 
Had his idee o' the objeck o' the yearly jubilee: 
'T was a day when all the fellers so inclined could 

show their thanks 
Fer whatever they'd a mind to by a-fillin' up their 

tanks 
Till their legs got weak an* weary from a-carryin* 

the load — 
He had spent the day in Denver an' he reckoned 

that he knowed. 

THREE-BLOCK TOM 

By N. Howard Thorp 

We was trailin* some stolen cattle 
In the winter of '98, 
From the Sierra Capitanes 
Past Dry Red Lake. 

On north to the Gran Qulvira, 
Past the Malapais, 
Hugging their trail like leeches 
Rode Three-Block Tom and I. 

They passed Punta de Agua, 
Left Manzanas on the west, 
Estancia to the eastward — 
They hardly stopped to rest. 



154 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Here en there we found a calf 
That had played out en dropped behind — 
They were making thirty miles a day, 
Driving like the wind. 

We caught up with them at Cerillos, 
OntheT.P. Road; 
Driv' 'em plain out of the country, 
Expecting there to load. 

But somehow the rustlers got wind of us, 
En quit the cattle there, 
En though we hunted for several days 
We could n't find the pair. 

At last we got instructions 
From the supreme boss, 
To ship to Kansas City 
To Clay, Robinson & Ross. 

But when I commenced a-loadin', 
I found Tom was n't there ; 
A puncher told me he was in Lamy, 
Loaded up fer fair. 

So I hired the two-horse wagon 
En set out that night — 
When I found Old Tom in Lamy, 
He was sure some sight. 

He had centipedes and rattlers, 
Gila monsters by the score, 
Puttin' them through their paces 
On Jon Pflueger's barroom floor. 



THREE-BLOCK TOM 155 

Well, at last I got him headed 
Fer the loadin' pens, 
En right there, friend neighbors, 
When my trouble it began. 

For he would n't make a wiggle 
Till I *d bought a few drinks more ; 
With his jug hugged up tight in his arms 
I got him out the door. 

That puncher knew more history 
Of the insect race from A to Z 
Than any Boston high-brow 
Who held an L.F.D. 

So discoursm* on their merits 
En to give him time to think, 
He 'd come out with a suggestion 
That all hands take a drink. 

Besides the three cars loaded, 
We had 'bout a half-car more, 
So I dumped Tom among the cattle 
En shut the stock-car door. 

So him en the jug of whiskey 
Pulled out on the branch; 
I never thought no more about him 
Till I got back to the ranch. 

Old Andy showed me a telegram 
From the firm in K.C. — 
The cattle had arrived all safely, 
As fine as they could be ; 



156 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Included in the shipment 
Was a cowboy called Tom L. — 
Said he was a fightin' cow-puncher, 
En his middle name was Hell; 

He wanted a return ticket 

Back on the line, 

Or he'd lick the whole Block outfit, 

One at a time ! 



TOP HAND 

From Jim Brownfield, Crow Flat, New Mexico, winter 
of 1899. Authorship credited to Frank Rooney; written 
about 1877. This song has been expurgated by me, as 
all the old-timers know that as originally sung around the 
cow-camps it could not have been printed, as it would 
have burned up the paper on which it was written. Jim, 
do you remember how you had to force those fresh eggs 
down and the jug said, "Goo-Goo" ? I published this 
song under the title of " Top Hand " in my earlier edition. 
The old name, which all cow-punchers remember, did 
not sound good in print. 

While you're all so frisky, I'll sing a little song: 
Think a horn of whiskey will help the thing along, 
It's all about the Top Hand when he's busted flat, 
Bumming round town, in his Mexicana hat. 
He 'd laid up all winter and his pocket-book is flat. 
His clothes are all tatters, but he don't mind that. 

See him in town with a crowd that he knows 
Rolling cigarettes an* a-smoking through his nose. 
First thing he tells you, he owns a certain brand, 
Leads you to think he is a daisy hand. 



TOP HAND 157 



Next thing he tells you 'bout his trip up the 

trail, 
All the way up to Kansas to finish up his tale. 

Put him on a horse, he's a dandy hand to work; 
Put him in the branding-pen, he's dead sure to 

shirk. 
With natural-leaf tobacco in the pockets of his 

vest 
He'll tell you his Californy pants are the best. 
He 's handled lots of cattle, has n't any fears, 
Can draw his sixty dollars, for the balance of his 

years. 

Put him on herd, he's a-cussin' all day; 
Anything tries, it 's sure to get away. 
When you have round-up he tells it all about 
He's going to do the cuttin' and you can't keep 

him out. 
If anything goes wrong he lays it on the screws, 
Says the lazy devils were trying to take a snooze. 

When he meets a greener he ain't afraid to rig, 
Stands him on a chuck-box and makes him dance 

a jig, 
Waives a loaded cutter, makes him sing and 

shout, 
He 's a regular Ben Thompson, when the boss ain't 

about. 
When the boss ain't about he leaves his leggins in 

camp, 
He swears a man who wears them is worse than a 

tramp. 



158 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Says he's not caring for wages that he earns, 
For dad's rich in Texas 'n' got wagonloads to 

burn; 
But when he goes to town he 's sure to take 

it in; 
He's always been dreaded wherever he has been. 
He rides a fancy horse, he is a favorite man, 
Can get more credit than a common waddie can. 

When you ship the cattle he's bound to go along 
To keep the boss from drinking and to see that 

nothing 's wrong; 
Wherever he goes, catch on to his game, 
He likes to be called with a handle to his name; 
He's always primping with a pocket looking-glass; 
From the top to the bottom he 's a holy jackass. 

THE U S U RANGE 

Received this song from Clabe Merchant, Black River, 
New Mexico. 

Come, cowboys, and listen to my song; 
I 'm in hopes I '11 please you and not keep you long ; 
I '11 sing you of things you may think strange 
About West Texas and the U S U range. 

You may go to Stamford and there see a man 
Who wears a white shirt and is asking for hands; 
You may ask him for work and he'll answer you 

short; 
He will hurry you up, for he wants you to start. 
He will put you in a wagon and be off in the rain, 
You will go upon Tongue River on the U S U range. 



U S U RANGE 159 

You will drive up to the ranch and there you will 

stop; 
It 's a little sod house with dirt all on top. 
You will ask what it is and they will tell you out 

plain 
That it is the ranch house on the U S U range. 

You will go in the house and he will begin to ex- 
plain; 

You will see some blankets rolled up on the floor; 

You may ask what it is and they will tell you out 
plain 

That it is the bedding on the USU range. 

You are up in the morning at the daybreak 
To eat cold beef and USU steak, 
And out to your work no matter if it 's rain — 
And that is the life on the USU range. 

You work hard all day and come in at night, 
And turn your horse loose, for they say it's all right, 
And set down to supper and begin to complain 
Of the chuck that you eat on the USU range. 

The grub that you get is beans and cold rice 
And USU steak cooked up very nice ; 
And if you don't like that, you need n't complain, 
For that 's what you get on the USU range. 

Now, kind friends, I must leave you, I no longer 

can remain, 
I hope I have pleased you and given you no pain. 
But when I am gone don't think me strange, 
For I have been a cow-puncher on the USU. 



i6o SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



WESTERN LIFE 

Appeared in " Den ver Republican." Accredited to Bronco 
Sue, who I was told wrote it. 

I buckled on a brace of guns and sallied to Wy- 
oming, 

And thought I'd kill some Indians ere day had 
reached the gloaming; 

But the first red-skin that came to view upon the 
reservation 

Said: "Ah, my dear old college chum, I give you 
salutation!" 

For Western life ain't wild and woolly now; 

They are up on Wagner, Ibsen, 

And adore the girls of Gibson — 

For Western life ain't wild and woolly now! 

I struck a little prairie town and saw two cowboys 

greet, 
And thought : " Now there '11 be powder burnt when 

these two bad men meet"; 
But the first one says to Number Two: "You beat 

me, Dick, at tennis: 
Now come along, old chap, and read the finish of 

' Pendennis.' " 

For Western life ain't wild and woolly now; 

The cowboy knows a lot besides more cow; 

He can two-step, do hemstitching, 

And do hay or baseball pitching — 

For Western life ain't wild and woolly now! 



WESTWARD HO! 161 

So in despair I turned into a busy Western town, 
And hoped to see the gun-fighters a-mowing of men 

down; 
But while I loitered on the street to see blood by 

the flagon, 
I fell before a green-goods man and then a devil 

wagon. 

For Western life ain't wild and woolly now; 

There is no daily gunpowder powwow ; 

There are bunco games galore 

And the chauffeur holds the floor — 

But Western life ain't wild and woolly now! 



WESTWARD HO! 

Heard a korse wrangler named Singleton sing this on the 
Delaware , at point of the Guadalupe Mountains. 

I love not Colorado 
Where the faro table grows, 
And down the desperado 
The rippling Bourbon flows; 

Nor seek I fair Montana 
Of bowie-lunging fame; 
, The pistol ring of fair Wyoming 
I leave to nobler game. 

Sweet poker haunted Kansas 

In vain allures the eye ; 

The Nevada rough has charms enough, 

Yet its blandishments I fly. 



162 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Shall Arizona woo me 

Where the meek Apache hides? 

Or New Mexico where natives grow 

With arrow-proof insides? 

Nay, 'tis where the grizzlies wander 

And the lonely diggers roam, 

And the grim Chinese from the squatter flees, 

That I'll make my humble home. 

I '11 chase the wild tarantula 
And the fierce coyote I '11 dare, 
And the locust grim, I '11 battle him, 
In his native wildwood lair. 

Or I'll seek the gulch deserted, 
And dream of the wild red man, 
And I '11 build a cot on a corner lot 
And get rich as soon as I can. 



WHAT'S BECOME OF THE PUNCHERS? 

By N. Howard Thorp 

What's become of the punchers 

We rode with long ago ? 

The hundreds and hundreds of cowboys 

We all of us used to know? 

Sure, some were killed by lightning, 
Some when the cattle run, 
Others were killed by horses, 
And some with the old six-gun. 



WHAT'S BECOME OF THE PUNCHERS? 163 

Those that worked on the round-up, 
Those of the branding-pen, 
Those who went out on the long trail drive 
And never returned again. 

We know of some who have prospered, 
We hear of some who are broke, 
My old pardner made millions in Tampa, 
While I 've got my saddle in soak ! 

Sleeping and working together, 
Eatin' old " Cussie's good chuck," 
Riding in all kinds of weather, 
Playing in all kinds of luck; 

Bragging about our top-hosses, 
Each puncher ready to bet 
His horse could outrun the boss's, 
Or any old horse you could get! 

Scott lies in Tularosa, 

Elmer Price lies near Santa Fe, 

While Randolph sits here by the fireside 

With a " flat-face " on his knee. 

'Gene Rhodes is among the high-brows, 
A-writin' up the West, 
But I know a lot of doin's 
That he never has confessed ! 

He used to ride 'em keerless 
In the good old days 
When we both worked together 
In the San Andres ! 



164 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Building big loops we called " blockers," 

Spinning the rope in the air, 

Never a cent in our pockets, 

But what did a cow-puncher care? 

I'm tired of riding this trail, boys, 
Dead tired of riding alone — 
B 'lieve I '11 head old Button for Texas, 
Towards my old Palo Pinto home ! 



WHEN BOB GOT THROWED 

Author unknown. Heard it sung in Arizona at Hachita 
by a puncher named Livingston. 

That time when Bob got throwed 
I thought I sure would bust; 
I liked to died a-laflin' 
To see him chewing dust. 

He crawled on that pinto bronc 
And hit him with a quirt, 
The next thing that he knew 
He was wallerin' in the dirt. 

Yes, it might V killed him, 
I heard the hard ground pop, 
But to see if he was injured 
You bet I didn't stop. 

I jest rolled on the ground 
And began to kick and yell; 
It liked to tickled me to death 
To see how hard he fell. 



WHEN BOB GOT THROWED 165 

T war n't more than a week ago 
That I myself got throwed; 
But that was from a meaner horse 
Than old Bob ever rode. 

D* you reckon Bob looked sad and said 
"I hope that you ain't hurt"? 
Naw; he just laughed and laughed 
To see me chewin' dirt. 

I've been prayin' ever since 
For his horse to turn his pack, 
And when he done it I 'd 'a' laughed 
If it had broke his back. 

So I was still a-howlin* 

When Bob he got up lame; 

He seen his horse had run clear off, 

And so for me he came. 

He first chucked sand into my eyes, 
With a rock he rubbed my head, 
Then he twisted both my arms: 
" Now, go fetch that boss," he said. 

So I went and fetched him back, 
But I was feelin' good all day; 
For I sure enough do love to see 
A fellow get throwed that way. 



166 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 



WHOSE OLD COW? 

By N. Howard Thorp 

Written at Roswell, New Mexico, 1899. Add was one of 
the best cow-hands on Pecos River. Everybody knew him. 
When he got married each cow-man wanted to give him a 
present, no one knowing what the other man had sent 
him, " as ranches were far apart." He received nineteen 
stoves and ranges for wedding presents. This song was in 
my copyrighted book published in 1908. 

'Twas the end of the round-up the last day of 

June, 
Or maybe July, I don't just remember, 
Or it might have been August, 't was sometime 

ago, 
Or perhaps 't was the first of September." 

Anyhow, 't was the round-up we had at Mayou, 

On the lightning rod's range near Cayo; 

There was some twenty wagons "more or less" 

camped about 
On the temporal in the canon. 

First night we 'd no cattle, so we only stood guard 
On the horses, somewhere about two hundred head; 
So we side-lined and hoppled, we belled and we 

staked, 
Loosed our hot rolls and fell into bed. 

Next morning 'bout daybreak we started our work; 
Our horses, like possums, felt fine, 
Each one "tendin' kitten," none trying to shirk, 
So the round-up got on in good time. 



WHOSE OLD COW? 167 

Well, we worked for a week till the country was 

clear 
An* the boss said, "Now boys we'll stay here; 
We'll carve and we'll trim 'em an' start out a 

herd 
Up the east trail from old Abilene." 

Next morning all on herd an' but two with the cut, 
An' the boss on Piute carving fine, 
'Til he rode down his horse and had to pull out, 
An' a new man went in to clean up. 

Well, after each outfit had worked on the band 
There was only three head of them left, 
When Nig Add from the L F D outfit rode in, 
A dictionary on earmarks an' brands. 

He cut the two head out where they belonged, 

But when the last cow stood there alone, 

Add's eyes bulged so he didn't know just what to 

say, 
'Ceptin' "Boss, dere's sumpin' here monstrous 

wrong ! 

"White folks smarter 'n Add, an' maybe I 'se wrong' 
But here 's six months' wages dar I'll give 
If any one '11 tell me when I reads de mark 
To who dis long-horned cow belongs. 

" Left ear swaller fork an' de undercrop, 
Overslope in right ear an' de underbit, 
Hole punched in center, an' de jinglebob 
Under ha'-f crop, an' de slash an' split. 



168 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

"She's got O Block an' Lightnin' Rod, 
Nine Forty-Six an' A Bar Eleven, 
Rafter Cross an* de double prod, 
Terrapin an' Ninety-Seven; 

" Half Circle A an' Diamond D, 
Four-Cross L an' Three P Z; 
B W I, Bar X V V, 
Bar N Cross an' A L C. 

" So, if none o' you punchers claims dis cow, 
Mr. Stock 'Sociation need n't get 'larmed, 
So old nigger Add, just brand her now, 
For one more brand or less won't do no harm." 

WINDY BILL 

Sung first to me by John Collier, Cornudas Mountain, 
New Mexico, July, 1899. Appeared first in my previous 
copyrighted book. 

Windy Bill was a Texas man, 

And he could rope, you bet; 
Talk of the steer he could n't tie down 

Hadn't sorter been born yet; 
The boys they knew of an old black steer, 

A sort of an old outlaw, 
Who ran down in the bottom 

Just at the foot of the draw. 

This slim black steer had stood his ground 
With punchers from everywhere; 

The boys they bet Bill two to one 
He could n't quite get there. 



WINDY BILL 169 



So Bill brought up his old cow-horse — 
His wethers and back were sore — 

Prepared to tackle this old black steer 
Who ran down in the draw. 

With his grazin' bits and sand-stacked tree, 

His chaps and taps to boot, 
His old maguey tied hard and fast, 

Went out to tackle the brute. 
Bill sorter sauntered around him first; 

The steer began to paw, 
Poked up his tail high in the air, 

And lit down in the draw. 

The old cow-horse flew at him 

Like he *d been eatin' corn, 
And Bill he landed his old maguey 

Around old blackie's horns. 
The old-time horse he stopped dead-still; 

The cinches broke like straw; 
Both the sand-stacked tree and old maguey, 

Went driftin' down the draw. 

Bill landed in a big rock-pile; 

His hands and face were scratched; 
He 'lowed he always could tie a steer 

But guessed he 'd found his match. 
Paid up his bet like a little man, 

Without a bit of jaw, 
And said old blackie was the boss 

Of all down in the draw. 

There *s a moral to my song, boys, 
Which I hope you can see; 



170 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

Whenever you start to tackle a steer 
Never tie hard your maguey. 

Put on your dalebueltas, 
'Cordin' to California law, 

And you will never see your old rim-fires 
Driftm* down the draw. 

WOMEN OUTLAWS 

By N. Howard Thorp 

There *s a touch of human pathos, 
A glamour of the West, 
Round the names of women outlaws 
Who have now gone to their rest — 

Bronco Sue, Belle Star, and Shudders, 
Pike Kate, and Altar Doane, 
Calamity Jane, Sister Cummings, 
And the Rose of Cimmaron. 

You Ve all oft heard the saying, 
"I'd go to Hell for you!" 
About these women outlaws 
That saying was too true. 

Each left her home and dear one 
For the man she loved the best, 
Close by his side on many a wild ride 
Through the mountains of the West. 

They've played their parts in Western Drama, 
On the great unscreened Western stage, 
Where the mountains were their platform, 
Their stage-setting rocks and sage. 



THE ZEBRA DUN 171 

Hunted by many a posse, 
Always on the run, 
Every man's hand against them, 
They fought, and often won. 

V/ith a price upon each head, 
They 'd have to fight and stand, 
And die as game as any man 
With a gun in either hand. 

My hat off to you, women outlaws, 

For you did what you thought best, 

And the same wild blood that coursed your veins 

Has settled up the West. 

Whether right or wrong, your spirit 
Knew not the word of fear — 
And 't is the dauntless courage of your kind 
That bred the pioneer 1 



THE ZEBRA DUN 

First heard the song sung by Randolph Reynolds, Car- 
rizozo Flats, in 1890. 

We were camped on the plains at the head of 

the Cimarron 
When along came a stranger and stopped to arger 

some. 
He looked so very foolish that we began to look 

around, 
We thought he was a greenhorn that had just 

'scaped from town. 



172 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

We asked if he] had been to breakfast; he hadn't 

had a smear; 
So we opened up the chuck-box and bade him have 

his share. 
He took a cup of coffee and some biscuits and some 

beans, 
And then began to talk and tell about foreign kings 

and queens, — 

About the Spanish War and fighting on the seas 
With guns as big as steers and ramrods big as 

trees, — ■ 
And about old Paul Jones, a mean-fighting son of a 

gun, 
Who was the grittiest cuss that ever pulled a gun. 

Such an educated feller, his thoughts just came in 
herds, 

He astonished all them cowboys with them jaw- 
breaking words. 

He just kept on talking till he made the boys all sick, 

And they began to look around just how to play 
a trick. 

He said he had lost his job upon the Santa Fe 
And was going across the plains to strike the 7-D. 
He did n't say how come it, some trouble with the 

boss, 
But said he 'd like to borrow a nice fat saddle hoss. 

This tickled all the boys to death; they laughed 'way 

down in their sleeves, — 
" We will lend you a horse just as fresh and fat as 

you please." 



THE ZEBRA DUN 173 

Shorty grabbed a lariat and roped the Zebra Dun 
And turned him over to the stranger and waited 
for the fun. 

Old Dunny was a rocky outlaw that had grown so 

awful wild 
That he could paw the white out of the moon 

every jump for a mile. 
Old Dunny stood right still — as if he didn't 

know — 
Until he was saddled and ready for to go. 

When the stranger hit the saddle, Old Dunny quit 

the earth, gjg 

And traveled right straight up for all that he was 

worth. 
A-pitching and a-squealing, a-having wall-eyed 

fits, 
His hind feet perpendicular, his front ones in the 

bits. 

We could see the tops of the mountains under 

Dunny every jump, 
But the stranger he was growed there just like 

the camel's hump; 
The stranger sat upon him and curled his black 

mustache, 
Just like a summer boarder waiting for his hash. 

He thumped him in the shoulders and spurred 

him when he whirled, 
To show them flunky punchers that he was the wolf 

of the world. 



174 SONGS OF THE COWBOYS 

When the stranger had dismounted once more upon 

the ground, 
We knew he was a thoroughbred and not a gent 

from town; 

The boss, who was standing round watching of the 

show, 
Walked right up to the stranger and told him he 

needn't go, — 
" If you can use the lasso like you rode old Zebra 

Dun, 
You are the man I 've been looking for ever since 

the year one." 

Oh, he could twirl the lariat, and he didn't do it 

slow; 
He could catch them fore feet nine out of ten for 

any kind of dough. 
There's one thing and a shore thing I've learned 

since I 've been born, 
That every educated feller ain't a plumb greenhorn. 



GLOSSARY 



GLOSSARY 


Baquero (vaquero) 


A cowpuncher 


Blocker 


A large loop made with a rope 


Bronco 


An untamed horse 


Broom'y> broom tails Range mares 


Buckaroo 


A cowpuncher 


Caballada 


A bunch of horses 


Cabresto 


A rope 


Chaps, chaparreras 


Leather legging 


Cincha 


A girth for saddle 


Corral 


A pen or enclosure 


Crinolina 


Hoop-skirt. An expression used 




to describe spinning a rope 


Cuarta 


A whip 


Dale vuelta 


Used in giving turns of rope 




around saddle horn 


Freno 


A bridle 


Grazin bits 


A snaffle or easy curb 


Jaquima 


A halter 


Kack 


A saddle 


Lasso 


A loop, or to catch 


Latigo 


A strap from cinch to saddle 


Maguey 


A Mexican catch rope 


Manada 


A bunch of mares 


Maverick 


An unbranded animal 


Mestefio 


A wild horse 


Montura 


A saddle 


Morral 


A feed bag 


Mustang 


A wild horse 


Outlaw 


A horse which has been spoiled in 




breaking 



178 


GLOSSARY 


Reata 


A rope 


Remuda 


A bunch of saddle horses or relay 




of horses 


Rodeo 


A round-up 


Slick 


An unbranded calf 


Taps, tapaderas 


Stirrup coverings 


Tarp 


A canvas bed sheet 


Vaquero 


A cowpuncher 


Waddie 


A cowpuncher 


Willows 


Range mares 


Wrangler 


A man who looks after and outfits 




saddle horses 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, 61 

A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor, 79 

All day long on the prairies I ride, 4 

An ancient long-horned bovine, 88 

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo, 41 

As I walked out one morning for pleasure, 70 

At midnight, when the cattle are sleeping, 46 

Bustin' down the canyon, 6 

Come, all of you people, I pray you draw near, 1 
Come, all you jolly cowboys that follow the bronco steer, 

53 

Come, all you melancholy folks, wherever you may be, 

121 
Come, all you old cow-punchers, a story I will tell, 99 
Come, all you old-timers, and listen to my song, 84 
Come, all you young waddies, I '11 sing you a song, 131 
Come along, boys, and listen to my tale, 109 
Come, cowboys, and listen to my song, 158 
Come on, all you cow-punchers, 91 

Daddy come from Brownsville, 94 

Dan Taylor is a rollicking cuss, 57 

Did you ever hear of the O L C steer, 21 

Drif tin' along the rim-rock, old Camp-Robber and 1, 1 16 

Every time I see an old paint horse, I think of you, 1 19 

For this is the law of the Western range, 92 

Good-bye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, 118 

He ca-su-ied wid me, most ruinous, 106 



182 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

He was little en peaked en thin, en narry a no-account 

horse, 142 
His mammy 's a burro, his daddy 's a horse, 104 
Hush-a-by, Long Horn, your pards are all sleeping 65 

I buckled on a brace of guns and sallied to Wyoming, 160 
I can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly 

West, 71 
I love not Colorado, 161 
I 'm a howler from the prairies of the West ! 9 
I struck the trail in seventy-nine, 69 
I thought one spring, just for fun, 146 
I took a trip this summer to the market, 3 
I 've been upon the prairie, 1 1 
I've cooked you in the strongest gypsum water, 68 
I 've swum the Colorado where she runs down close to 

hell, 66 
In readin' the story of early days, it's a cause of much 

personal pain, 101 
In seventy-six, or thereabouts, when the Black Hills 

made the strike, 115 
It was chuck-time on the round-up, and we heard "Old 

Doughy " shout, 24 

Just one year ago to-day, 93 

Last night, as I lay on the prairie, 40 
List, all you California boys, 18 

Little gal, I 'm not a singer; if I were I 'd sing to you, 98 
Little Joe, the wrangler, will never wrangle more, 96 
Living long lives in Sonora, nested 'mongst mountains 
high, 63 

Morn's breakin' over de ole Ranch before de moon's 

gone 'way, 122 
My country, 't is of thee, 105 
My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand, 119 
My love is a rider, wild broncos he breaks, 14 
My lover is a cowboy, he 's brave and kind and true, 86 

Never was no gal like Mollie, 48 

Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear, 32 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 183 

O Lord, I aint never lived where churches grow, 47 

Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie, 62 

Oh, come en ride the Western range along with Blue en 

me, 67 
Oh, I am a Texas cowboy, 148 
Oh, music springs under the galloping hoofs, 129 
Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round, 108 
Oh, the prairie dogs are barking, 30 
Oh, we're up in the morning ere breaking of the day, 132 
One pleasant summer day it came a storm of snow, 58 

Parson, I'ma maverick, just runnin' loose an* grazin', 55 

Sam Eass was born in Indiana, it w r as his native home, 

135 

Some time ago — two weeks or more, 31 
Spanish is the lovin' tongue, 10 

*T was a calm and peaceful evening in a camp called 

Arapahoe, 15 
'T was the end of the round-up the last day of June, 166 
'T was this time jest a year ago on this Thanksgivin' Day, 

12 
Ten thousand Texas Rangers are laughin' fit to kill, 145 
That time when Bob got throwed, 164 
The bawl of a steer, 44 
The bawl of a steer to a cowboy's ear is music of sweetest 

strain, 140 
The boss he took a trip to France, 60 
The Devil we're told in hell was chained, 77 
The outlaw stands with blindfold eyes, 113 
The scream of the outlaw split the air, 138 
There 's a touch of human pathos, 170 
There was a brave old Texan, 102 
There was a rich old rancher who lived in the country by, 

134 
They don't drive the Overland Stage no more, 124 
Through progress of the railroads our occupation 's gone, 

20 
Through rocky arroyos so dark and so deep, 23 
Twelve years have I lived in this desolate place, 130 



184 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

'Way out in Western Texas, where the Clear Fork's 

waters flow, 35 
'Way high up in the Moldones, among the mountain-tops, 

81 
We had all made the guess by the cut of his dress an' the 

tenderfoot style that he slung, 49 
We was settin' 'round the ranch house on the last 

Thanksgivin' Day, 151 
We was trailin' some stolen cattle, 153 
We were camped on the plains at the head of the Cimar- 
ron, 171 
Well, old horse, you 've brought me 'cross the line, 123 
What 's become of the punchers, 162 
When I think of the last great round-up, 75 
When the Mormons drifted southward, 117 
When the sap comes up through the cottonwood roots, 112 
Where the old Fort Sumner Barracks look down on the 

Pecos wide, 127 
Where the Pecos River winds and turns in its journey to 

the sea, 126 
While you 're all so frisky, I '11 sing a little song, 156 
Windy Bill was a Texas Man, 168 

You kin brag of city caffeys and their trout from streams 

and lakes, 74 
You may call the cowboy horned and think him hard to 

tame, 34 



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